Still Waters
by dinnae
Summary: Surviving the snake bite should have given Severus Snape a redeemed life - had it not been for circumstances beyond his control that led him to being tried and convicted as one of Voldemort's loyal Death Eaters. Five years after the war a young Dark Arts historian comes to Azkaban to interview Death Eaters for a book. Her meeting with Snape will change everything. Snape/OC.
1. The Young Historian

**Hello.**

**Alright, so I'll try and avoid long author's notes (at least at the beginning of chapters), but let me just very quickly say this: The idea for this story popped into my head and I just couldn't shake it. It had to come out. Hopefully it's worth reading.**

**Go ahead.**

* * *

APRIL 17th 2003

"Ah, Bess. Please, come in, come in. Here, take a seat."

I stepped into Fredrickson's office and closed the door behind me before apprehensively sitting down in the chair facing his large desk. Fredrickson sat on the other side, eyeing me with those crinkled, gentle blue eyes of his.

"You wanted to see me, John," I said.

"Yes," nodded Fredrickson, making a fuss of tidying away the papers on his desk in order to fully turn his attention to me. "Yes, I did. Look, I've been going over our recent sales numbers and it's clear your last book didn't do quite as well as we would've hoped."

That was an understatement; it had been an enormous flop. In all honesty I was surprised Fredrickson had even agreed to it, he couldn't possibly have imagined that a biography about Grindelwald's family history would be a best seller, especially not now, considering the only dark wizard anybody ever cared to read about these days was Voldemort.

Five years after his demise the bookshops were now filled to the brink with Tom Riddle biographies. Apparently an acceptable amount of time had passed and suddenly, as if flicking a light switch, it was okay, albeit slightly controversial. Now every publishing house in England – and abroad – was keen to see what profit could be made.

I had early on stated to Fredrickson I would not take part in any of it. I would not have my big break come from the misfortunes of others, from people's morbid fascination with a megalomaniac mass murderer.

And so instead I had written my Grindelwald book. And it'd been disastrous for Fredrickson & Holly. I was surprised Fredrickson had even bothered asking me to come in, he could've simply sent me an owl telling me he was done with me – which was what I had expected to hear up until I saw that distinctive _friendly_ look in his eyes.

"I did warn you about that book," I said.

"You did," smiled Fredrickson. "But it was worth a shot. Listen, the truth is I didn't ask you to come in today to discuss _Grindelwald Roots_."

I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't?"

"No. We must look to the future, Bess."

I nearly laughed. "I would've thought after my two flops you wouldn't want to share any kind of literary future with me," I said.

He looked at me, surprised. "Bess," he said. "You thought I called you in here to tell you our collaboration was at an end?"

I shrugged.

"Merlin, when will you learn," sighed Fredrickson. He leaned forward, placing his right palm on the desk in front of me. "Bess, you're a great historian. You know your stuff, and what's more, you're good at writing about it. I know you're young, and you haven't made your non-fiction debut with as much of a bang as I would've liked, but I know what you're capable of." He paused for effect. "Bess, I want you to write another book."

Still reeling from the praise I so obviously didn't deserve, I merely managed to splutter, "Another book?"

"You heard me," he said with the slightest hint of a grin at my look of surprise. "No one knows dark wizards like you. I have a particular assignment for you."

"John, no Tom Riddle books, I –"

"Not Tom Riddle." Fredrickson shook his head. "Something else. Something that hasn't been done before, something the readers want. It's bold, Bess, but if anybody can do it …"

"Which war?" I interrupted.

He hesitated. "This one. The most recent one."

I shook my head. "I won't."

"Bess –"

"No," I said. "I won't make money off of that. It's too soon. Those vultures over at Dust & Mildew can have dibs on all the war books as far as I'm concerned, you won't get me to write about that. Gods, John – those victims all still have living, grieving relatives. I'm not turning their deaths into a soap."

"You won't," John assured me. "We don't want you writing about the victims or their families. In fact our focus isn't on the victims at all. If you're lucky you won't even have to mention the name Harry Potter."

I raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Well, alright," smirked Fredrickson, "perhaps you won't be able to dodge Harry Potter. But it won't be a soap, Bess. It won't be a gut-wrencher."

"So?" I said, curious despite my better judgment. I leaned back in my chair. "What will it be?"

"The Death Eaters," said Fredrickson. "More specifically, those who are still alive."

"Those who are in Azkaban," I added.

"Precisely."

"What?" I said. "You want me to … interview them? Tell their life story, what? Can you possibly imagine anyone wanting to read about their laments? Half of wizarding Britain is still demanding they all receive the Kiss despite it being illegal now. What sort of book could you possibly be imagining?"

"An honest account," said Fredrickson. "Facts, dates. That's what people want. There's still so much we don't know about their movements, about their various whereabouts during the war, about their … crimes." He looked down for a moment before returning his gaze to me. "People have unanswered questions. Loved ones they have lost, but whose final hours are still a mystery to them. The Death Eaters who are still alive might be able to shed some light on these issues. I want a book that will give people their answers without telling a story – I want facts. And you, Bess, are a woman of facts."

I drew a deep breath, hesitating to answer. To me, this sounded like just the sort of book I wanted to avoid. Still I had to pick my battles carefully. Not only had I cost Fredrickson & Holly money with _Grindelwald Roots_, my first book from two years back, _Into the Fire_ – a biography about Ignatia Wildsmith, the inventor of Floo powder – had been almost as big of a hit and miss. I'd barely made enough money to make it through the last couple of years and rent was becoming increasingly difficult to handle.

Damn it. I needed the money.

Plus, I was afraid if I turned it down Fredrickson wouldn't give me another chance. And with my track record I didn't fancy any other publishing house in London giving me as much as a foot in the door.

"Why me?" I finally asked. "There are plenty of qualified non-fiction writers. Not to mention plenty older ones who might recall more about Voldemort's rise to power. Remember I was only six years old when he was defeated the first time."

"Yes, but you remember the second rise to power quite vividly, don't you?" said Fredrickson, his eyes no longer twinkling. He just looked at me, patiently awaiting my reaction. I knew exactly the reason for his gentle, cautious nature.

"I do," I muttered. "I remember a lot of awkward family dinners."

"Don't be snappy, Bess," begged Fredrickson. "I know it must have been difficult for you. But your experiences put you in a unique position. I forget, how closely related were you in fact to the Death Eater Evan Rosier?"

Bastard, he hadn't forgotten, he knew very well how closely.

"He was my uncle," I replied. "But I only met him once."

Fredrickson nodded. "Yes, he died in 1980. Resisting arrest. But he had a daughter, didn't he? Another follower who, though she remained in the shadows, did aid Voldemort during the second rise?"

"Yes," I spat. He knew all this, why was he asking?

"So," said Fredrickson. "As I said, this puts you in a unique position. You're a half-blood, but your pureblood mother's side was riddled with Death Eaters, pardon my saying. Her father, her brother, his daughter … And in the midst of all that your mother marries a Muggle."

I shrugged. There was nothing to say, he was right of course. Those were the facts.

"And …" Fredrickson eyed me cautiously. "Then there was the matter of your grandparents."

"What about them?" I snapped.

"Well, they were murdered by Death Eaters, weren't they?" he asked. "Your Muggle grandparents … in 1997?"

I sighed. Yes, they were, as Fredrickson knew perfectly well, though I understood his reasoning for talking me through my own family history – he was trying to point out to me my "unique" position. Plenty of Death Eaters on my mother's side, Muggle grandparents murdered by Death Eaters on my father's side. Truly unique. And not at all that pleasant and not something I would willingly put in a book for the world to read about. And I told Fredrickson as much.

"You won't have to tell _your_ story, not in any detail at least," he said. "But having family members on, well, both sides, so to speak, makes you ideal for this particular project. Think about it, Bess: None of Voldemort's remaining sympathizers can accuse you of not telling the facts accurately – you have Death Eater in your blood, after all – and none of the survivors can say you aren't interested in getting the truth out there because you yourself lost Muggle family members during Voldemort's reign of terror."

Merlin. How he managed to so thoroughly compliment and insult me in the same breath I couldn't fathom. _Death Eater in my blood?_ Thank you very much, John Fredrickson.

"So I'm to tell the facts," I stated. "About the surviving Death Eaters. Where they were at what times and what they did there. Basically make them share all the details they haven't been willing to share thus far." I shook my head in disbelief. "The purpose of which, you believe, is to offer some comfort to the grieving families of their many victims."

"And answers, hopefully," nodded Fredrickson.

I didn't speak; instead I let my gaze wander. It fell upon the various books that filled Fredrickson's many shelves. All non-fiction, all proper, serious works, no gossip, slander or soaps here. Fredrickson & Holly was a respectable publishing house; there was a reason I'd gone to them in the first place after finishing my degree in Dark Magic History. I had always relied on them to choose projects with the utmost care and decency. Which was why this new project was a puzzle. I wanted to believe Fredrickson truly desired to do something good with this book, but …

I had two good reasons to turn it down. _One_, it still sounded to me a bit too much like profiting off of the victims' grief. Even if it _was_ supposed to be all facts, all answers, no tears, it still sounded like dangerous territory to me. _Two_, I definitely didn't want the whole wizarding world to know the details of my family's involvement in the war, but if I chose to write this book I would have to share at least _some_ of it to ease the mind of my potential critics.

Yes, I had two very good reasons for turning it down. And one much better reason to accept.

Money.

"Let's assume I say yes," I said hesitantly, immediately raising my hands to calm Fredrickson as he seemed ready to leap out of his chair in glee, "and let's assume the remaining imprisoned Death Eaters will even want to speak with me, much less share details they've so far refused to tell even the Wizengamot. I will still need permission to interview them. Unlimited access, not just a one-time meeting. How will you sort that with the courts?"

Fredrickson grinned. "Already taken care of."

My jaw dropped. "What?"

"I called in a favour from one of the judges," he said. "He owed me one. Coincidentally it just so happens he wants answers too, his daughter-in-law was murdered back then and he still has no idea how or by whom. I obviously promised you would find the answer."

"Obviously," I parroted, rolling my eyes. Fredrickson looked expectantly at me and I grunted. There was no point fighting any more, we both knew I would take it. I'd sell my soul to sell books, if only to pay the rent. It amazed me how fast ethics flew out the window when money was involved. Disgusted with myself I briskly moved forward, saying, "Fine. Alright." I sighed, rising from my chair. "Whom should I start with?"

Fredrickson stood, shaking my hand with a big, galleon-induced smile on his face.

"With the obvious one of course," he said. "The enigma, the mystery – the big seller of this book, let's face it. The survivor, the one who claimed his innocence, who claimed to be a double agent, a spy, the one who then refused to cooperate … The murderer of Albus Dumbledore – the oh so gifted _liar_."

I couldn't help it; my eyes widened. I immediately knew whom he was talking about.

"Severus Snape," I whispered.

* * *

**There we are. First chapter. Ooh. Yes, it will be slightly AU, but not very.**

**Alright, so I've always been a SS/HG shipper. In fact when I started writing Bess I almost felt like I was betraying Hermione - but she's grown on me. Also I've found there aren't all that many first person Snape stories, at least not from the OC's point of view. So I wanted to give that a go.**

**There will be mystery, romance, drama and perhaps a little angst. We'll see.**

**Oh, and so far this is a T story but it very well might turn into an M. In which case I'll let you know and of course from then on I'll inform you at the beginning of every chapter if there's any M in it, just in case somebody'll want to skip it.**

**So. Feedback is of course immensely appreciated. Go forth and review.**


	2. The Liar

**Another chapter in rapid succession because let's face it, reading just one chapter is no fun.**

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APRIL 21st 2003

**_Remembering the Boy Who Lived_**

**_Editor's Corner – Barnabas Cuffe, _Daily Prophet _Editor_**

_Like so many dates in our recent history the 21__st__ of April is one for sadness, grief and honoured remembrance. It has now been four years; still the wizarding world goes just a little quieter today as we once again remember the death of the Boy Who Lived._

_It had been almost a year since the Battle of Hogwarts. No one saw it coming; at least, not like this. It came not through vengeful Voldemort supporters, not even through a spell or potion gone wrong but through something as simple as a heart attack._

_Harry Potter died at 11:52 on April 21__st__ in the home of his wife's family in Ottery St. Catchpole. He had just recently returned from a run when his brother-in-law George Weasley found him unconscious in the kitchen. Despite Mr Potter being rushed to St Mungo's, getting there mere minutes after Mr Weasley stated he could not find a pulse, the war hero's life could not be saved. His heart had given out long before he reached the Healers and the death of the saviour of the wizarding world was a fact. Why his heart failed no one could say, but speculations inevitably turned to the life he'd led and all the terror he had experienced. Some said it had simply been too much to bear._

_These days, Mr Potter's widow and in-laws are still_

...

I lowered the paper as I spotted the guard coming back down the hallway. He marched over to me and nodded towards the headline.

"Tragic, eh?" he said. "Still can't quite believe it."

"Well," I said. "It's been four years. The world has to keep turning."

"Inevitable," he concurred. "Just seemed like such a waste. He survived the war, should've gone on to lead a long, happy life. Least he deserved, you know?"

I nodded. "Agreed. Life's sometimes just not fair."

"Truer words were never spoken. So." He clapped his hands together. "Ready to meet one of Potter's lifelong enemies?"

I nodded again, folded my paper and stood, gesturing for the guard to lead the way. We set off back down the hallway and reached the stairs, leaving the reception behind and moving deep into the darkness – figuratively and literally – of Azkaban. I hadn't been nervous up until that point, but as we passed the first floor of cells and I heard screaming echoing through the heavy oak doors I felt my heart race just a little.

"Don't worry," said the guard, clearly catching my nerves. "They may be loud, but they can't hurt you. No prison's as secure as Azkaban, even without the Dementors. As for Snape, well – he may bark, but he can't bite. Not unless you're stupid enough to put your hand through the bars."

"I won't," I immediately said and he chuckled.

We climbed further down and I counted six floors before the guard finally stopped, fishing inside his jacket pocket for a set of keys to unlock the oak doors. He hauled them open and gestured for me to enter. I'm proud to say I managed without hesitation.

We were in another long hallway, this one with a dead end. There were no screams here, I noted, and as we moved down the hallway I passed several cells on my right. They were all empty. I glanced questioningly at the guard.

"Oh yeah, we keep him alone on this floor," he explained. "He's not popular with the other inmates. Somehow manages to piss them off, whoever we put in here with him. Tell you the truth I think he's too clever for most of our other prisoners; he says one thing or other to them and they just lose it. We had another Death Eater in the cell the farthest from his and still the other guy was screaming in rage by the end of the day, demanding Snape's head. In the end our warden just couldn't be bothered with all the ruckus so he decided Snape gets this floor all to himself. Bastard. Causing a shitstorm even in prison."

I didn't say anything and instead observed the cells we passed. They were simple, gloomy – all containing nothing but a narrow bunk and a wooden chair and desk. I counted six cells by the time we reached the end of the hallway and the seventh cell appeared to my right. The only one that wasn't empty. I felt my breath catch as I looked into it.

Severus Snape sat on the floor, his back against the wall, knees drawn up with elbows resting on them, reading a book. His black hair, just a little longer than shoulder-length, was draped down covering parts of his pale face. The striped prison uniform hung loosely on his person; he was obviously very lean, skinny almost. He looked up as we appeared before him and I'd never seen blacker eyes. He glanced at the guard for a second before locking his gaze on me.

"Snape," said the guard. "This is Elizabeth White. The author from Fredrickson & Holly. She's here to interview you. You remember I told you about this?"

Snape's gaze flickered to the guard again. He looked irritated.

"Yes, I am not daft," he said. His voice was a rich, deep baritone, almost ricocheting off the stone walls.

"Right," nodded the guard. He was fidgeting, clearly feeling self-conscious in Snape's presence. "Well then." He reached for a small wooden chair that sat in the corner of the corridor and placed it in front of Snape's cell. He then turned to me.

"I'll be just upstairs," he said. "If you need me just speak 'guard', Azkaban's enchanted to respond to that word, we'll be here in seconds. Though you probably won't need it 'til you're leaving – not unless, like I said, you're stupid enough to –"

"I won't feed him my hand," I interrupted. It might have been my imagination but I thought I heard Snape give the faintest chuckle.

"Excellent," nodded the guard. He shook my hand and took off down the hallway. Seconds later I heard the wooden door slam and the click of the lock. I was alone with Snape.

I glanced back at him. He was watching me, still sitting there frozen on the floor of his cell, the book in his hands still open.

I cleared my throat and looked at the chair the guard had given me. Opted against it and instead used it to put down my quill and parchment. Then I took a step closer to the bars – not too close, though – and straightened my back. Mentally rolled up my sleeves.

"Severus Snape," I said.

"Elizabeth White," he mocked.

I tried not to let it rattle me and braved on. "Bess, actually," I said. "It's Bess. You've been told why I'm here. Have you been told what I want to speak with you about?"

"Evidently about my many appalling deeds as a Death Eater," he said. "What a surprise."

"Well, would you have preferred if I came asking for your best cooking recipes?" I retorted, chin up. He was testing me; I could already tell he had no interest in telling me anything – I had to change that.

The smallest smirk appeared on his lips. "That, at least, would have been original. And I am a good cook, Miss White, believe it or not."

"Hmm," I said. "Maybe later."

Again, a chuckle.

"Alright," I said, taking a deep breath. "Listen. Let's be honest with each other, shall we? I think that's a good place to start. I know you don't want to talk to me. I know you don't want to cooperate, you haven't in years, in fact you've been the most uncooperative Death Eater the Ministry has ever had to deal with."

"Probably true," said Snape. A hint of bitterness in his voice?

"But this is your chance," I continued. "Look, I didn't even want to write this book – see, honesty all the way – but I've decided if I'm going to I'm going to do it right. I'll tell your story, Snape. All of it, every detail no matter how much the Ministry will hate what you have to say …"

At that, he glanced up at me, a small look of surprise on his features.

"… because I know some of the things you've said in the past really pissed them off," I finished. "But I'll tell all of it in this book. I'm not afraid to go against them, I'll tell it all – as long as it's true," I added with a pointed look at him.

"Hmm," he hummed, closing his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back against the wall. It exposed his throat and I could see his collarbones and the prison numbers tattooed on his chest. "Tempting. As you said, the Ministry and I certainly have very different views on the circumstances of certain events … and in the past I wasn't afraid to shout what I know to be the truth. But they didn't listen," he suddenly spat, his eyes flying open again to fix me with a deadly stare. "Liar, they called me. Traitor. Murderer. They asked for the truth and when I gave it they would not listen. No one would. I ended up here." He lazily gestured to the cell. "So forgive me, _Bess_, if I'm less than confident that you will be any different."

I nodded. "I get that. Truly, I do. But I am serious. I'll tell _your_ story. Clean and simple, the facts."

"Ah, if only I could take your word for it," he lamented mockingly.

"Well, what can I do to convince you?" I asked.

Suddenly he snapped the book shut and stood. He was tall, even taller than I'd expected, somehow looming over me despite the bars that separated us. He stepped closer. His eyes bore into mine and I couldn't look away.

"Considering I no longer have any rights and therefore no wand and can't magically bind you to your word I shall have to rely on something else," he said, that dark voice demanding my attention. "If I'm to tell you _my_ version of the events I expect you to share all of it in your book and, if possible, _prove_ it."

"Prove it, I –" I began, but he cut me off.

"If possible," he repeated. "In return I promise every word I speak will be the truth."

_He's a pathological liar_, I reminded myself. Everybody knew that, it'd practically been screamed at him in the courtrooms time and time again as he'd told "his version" of the events. He'd kept lying; they'd kept demanding the truth. He'd stuck with his version until he'd grown bored with it all and then simply refused to cooperate any longer. I couldn't trust him to tell _me_ the truth, and yet …

There was something in his eyes. Something that stupidly made me want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"That's it?" I asked. "You want me to believe you and try to prove your story?"

He smirked; a nasty, scary smirk.

"That's not all," he said. "I need reassurance, of course. If I'm to tell you my story then you will tell me yours. I'll answer your questions, you answer mine. If I know all your darkest, dirtiest secrets you will hopefully be less inclined to piss me off by twisting my words to the public."

I hesitated. _This_ I had not seen coming. Could I agree to this? Could I tell this man, this Death Eater, this … _murderer_, my personal secrets? Not that I had all that many, but there were certainly things I didn't want anybody to know about. Then again, whom would he tell? Who would listen to him? He was a liar, and a convicted felon.

"Fine," I said before I could change my mind.

"One last thing," said Snape, leaning so close to the bars I actually took a step back. "I want furlough."

I gaped. I couldn't help it.

"You're delusional," I spat. "I can't get you that. They'll never let you out of here, least of all for a _book interview_."

"Then there won't be any book interview," he simply stated and took a step back. "Those are my terms, Miss White. I want a final moment of freedom, I want normal food and a bed and … coffee in the morning," he added, an exasperated look on his face that for a moment made me almost want to smile.

"I'll agree to whatever security measures they see fit," he continued. "But I want furlough while we have our talks. They can take me back here when we're done."

I shook my head. "I can't. You know I can't."

"Will you not at least try?" he asked; it wasn't pleadingly, it was nasty, cruel. "If I knew you were a person to give up so easily I never would have even mentioned my terms to you, you're clearly a lost cause."

I sighed, my frustration getting the better of me. Despite everything I found myself intrigued. I'd been hesitant to take on this project, but standing here face to face with the enigma that was Severus Snape I found myself wanting to hear his "truth". I remembered some of the things he'd said in court five years ago, I'd read it in the paper but it was all a bit fuzzy. I hadn't paid that much attention back then, but now I clearly recalled a certain word he'd kept repeating, the word that had made them all call him a liar: _Innocent_.

Was that his truth? Didn't he belong in Azkaban? Was the story of him being Dumbledore's double-agent … _true_? That was the lie he'd told in court, but what if … No, it couldn't be. _Pathological liar, Bess_, I repeated to myself. Still, why had he been so insistent on that story? It was far-fetched at best; if he truly was a gifted liar then why not come up with a better lie? Why not blame it on the Imperius Curse, many of the other Death Eaters had. Why insist on _this_ lie?

Was it possible the Ministry had got it wrong?

_Had_ they imprisoned an innocent man?

There was no way of knowing. Not without hearing Snape's own detailed account and finding a way to prove – or disprove – it. If he in fact were telling the truth this book would be sensational. _I'd_ be sensational.

"I won't put myself on the line with your warden and ask for something as absurd as furlough unless I know it'll be worth the trouble," I said to Snape, chin raised and defiance worn proudly. I'd suddenly come up with a plan.

"It will be worth it," he said. "Believe my story, find the necessary evidence to collaborate it and you will _thank_ me before all of this is done."

"Somehow I doubt it," I said, but added, "If I'm going to ask for your furlough then I'll want some incentive."

He stepped back, spreading his arms invitingly. "What do you want?"

"Answer ten questions now," I said. "Just you, no questions for me. If I like – and _believe_ – your answers then I'll see what I can do about your furlough."

"Two," he said.

"Seven," I bargained.

"Five," said Snape. "Just yes or no questions. Final offer."

"Deal," I said.

He grinned. "Very well, Miss White, go ahead. First question."

I hesitated; I had to choose my questions carefully. Whatever he answered now would decide whether or not I should put my career in jeopardy and piss off both the warden and Fredrickson by asking for something as outrageous as _furlough_ for a convicted Death Eater.

"Fine," I said. "First question. Are you innocent of being a Death Eater?"

He tilted his head to the side as if contemplating it. "Technically, no."

"That's it?" I demanded. "That's all I get?"

He smirked again. "Pick better questions, Miss White."

I snorted, pacing the hallway for a moment in search of my second question. Then I stopped and turned to look at him.

"Did you murder Albus Dumbledore?"

He nodded. "Yes."

He looked slightly more displeased now; clearly my two first questions had done as little for him as they had for me. I had to ask something that would bring out his "truth", as loosely as that term was when dealing with Severus Snape.

"Were you in fact a double-agent, a spy, working with Dumbledore to overthrow Voldemort?"

He looked positively relieved. "_Yes_."

Finally we were getting somewhere. Three questions down, two to go. I desperately wanted to ask him how that was possible, but that wasn't a yes or no question. I was quiet for a second before asking my fourth.

"Is there any way of proving that?"

"Perhaps," he replied. I raised my eyebrows questioningly, and to my surprise he actually elaborated. "There may be documents to support my claim. Somewhere."

Now _that_ was interesting. If he actually was telling the truth – hell freezing over any second now – and there was a way of backing up his story, then I had my big ass freaking bestseller book right there.

"Final question, Miss White," said Snape. "Are you convinced yet?"

"Hey, no questions for me today, remember?" I teased; I didn't know what came over me. I was rewarded with another small chuckle.

"Okay," I said, quickly dismissing that curious, surreal moment and returning to the matter at hand. "Final question." I started pacing again. First I hadn't a clue what to ask. Couldn't think of a question important enough to make this decision for me, but suddenly … I remembered something else from his trial, something I'd read in one of the many newspaper articles covering it. In the days before he'd stopped cooperating he had been almost begging them to believe him. Not just about his innocence, but about something else. About …

I gasped and quickly turned to Snape, stepping almost too close to the bars in a moment of excitement.

"In your trial," I said. "You desperately wanted them to believe you because you said you had information about Voldemort followers who had avoided imprisonment, followers who were very likely to bide their time and later some day strike again. At that point everybody called you a liar and no one would listen. But you did say they were out there."

He leaned in now, locking that intense gaze onto me again. I caught myself leaning inn too despite how dangerous it was, how dangerous _he_ was; I could almost feel his breath on my face and didn't even care.

"Was that true?" I whispered.

His gaze almost swallowed me whole.

"_Yes_."

Fuck. I would _have_ to get him furlough.

* * *

**Aaah, furlough. Thank you, OITNB.**

**Oh, and the thing with Harry... Sorry about that. AU, I know, and maybe it's not fair to off him like that, but I have my reasons, which will become apparent soon enough. In addition I'm sure you all can guess where I got the idea for Snape's "deal", him asking questions to Bess in return for hers. _Quid pro quo, Clarice_.**

**Well? Review? Yes? **


	3. The First Interview

APRIL 30th 2003

"He … he got it?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Downright couldn't believe it. I would've laughed, suggested Fredrickson was pulling one over on me if he hadn't looked so serious. In just over a week he had somehow managed to yet again pull enough strings with the same judge who gave me access to Azkaban to now, somehow, secure Severus Snape's requested furlough. It was unthinkable. And yet …

"He did," nodded Fredrickson. "The warden was furious and will do his best to make your life hell, but there you have it. Judge Crest is a powerful man and eager to get his answers."

I nodded, painfully reminded of why this Crest was even helping us. If I didn't find out who'd killed his daughter-in-law I would be in a world of trouble. Who would have thought the publishing industry was this dodgy. My dull and eventless life as a historian and documentary writer was a running gag with my friends; I could only imagine the look on their faces when I told them I was bribing a judge (with information, not money, but still), visiting Azkaban and now taking a convicted Death Eater on vacation. They'd choke on their Butterbeers, the lot of them.

"I'll do my best for Crest," I said. "But it's going to take a while. I'm scheduled to interview eleven Death Eaters and so far I think just my talks with Snape alone might take weeks, if not at least a month."

"A month?" Fredrickson's eyes widened. "Why?"

I hadn't yet told him what I was onto. Hadn't explained to Fredrickson the deal I'd struck with Snape in the hopes of a real scoop: the truth behind his conviction. Fredrickson believed I was just interviewing him like I would the others about his Death Eater activity. Truth was I didn't think Fredrickson would appreciate the deal I'd made, nor my snooping. He, like the rest of the world, believed Snape to be a dangerous and gifted liar – and he was; his Occlumency skills alone confirmed that – and I was certain Fredrickson would say I was on a wild goose chase. He'd say there was no way Snape could be innocent, no way he could be telling the truth about him being a spy and then he'd go on to say that all that talk about a secret group of Voldemort supporters waiting to strike was surely just a ploy to gain furlough …

And perhaps it was. Perhaps Snape had already played me like a fiddle.

But two could play at that game. I wasn't so easily tricked.

"Snape's … difficult," I said to Fredrickson, elegantly dodging the real reason I'd predicted it might take a while to finish with him. "He's tricky, the fact that he even said yes to the interview suggests he's planning something. It'll take time figuring out whether or not he's telling the truth, I'll have to fact check everything, obviously."

"Good girl," smiled Fredrickson. "I knew I picked the right author for this project. Now – the furlough. I've had words with Crest, the Auror Office and the new warden, Eustace Singe. Goes without saying it comes with very strict terms."

"I figured," I nodded.

"The Aurors have found a small cottage in an almost desert village not far from Yorkshire. It's mostly unpopulated now but it _is_ a wizarding village, meaning there won't be any Muggles there should Snape be tempted to return to his old, wicked ways."

I bit back a snort.

"Even so," continued Fredrickson, "he obviously won't be allowed to go outside. The cottage is being thoroughly warded as we speak and two Aurors will be stationed outside at all times. Snape will be magically bound to the cottage, actually physically unable to leave it. Of course he won't be given a wand for his stay either."

"That went without saying," I said, nodding. "What about supplies? Food?"

"Yes, it will be decently stocked," said Fredrickson.

"Coffee?" I blurted out.

Fredrickson looked curiously at me. "Yes, I presume there will be coffee there. And some books for entertainment. Every item, every wall, nook and crevice in the cottage is also being checked to ensure there's no magic there he can in any way use to stage an attack or escape. He will have no access to owls or the Floo network, no communication with the outside world whatsoever."

"Sounds like the Auror Office has been thorough," I said. "When do we start?"

"Not so fast," said Fredrickson. "Those are the measures taken to secure the cottage. Another spell is being cast to protect _you_."

I hesitated; I barely even considered my own safely in all of this, I was too obsessed with the story. But he was a Death Eater after all. Like a caged beast he was likely to be dangerous and unpredictable. Besides, if I were in the way of his escape at some point the truth was he probably wouldn't hesitate to kill me. But at least I had a wand and he didn't. And I was slightly insulted that the Auror Office didn't think that was enough.

"Severus Snape will be physically incapable of doing anything to you or involving you that you don't specify," said Fredrickson. "He won't even be able to shake your hand unless you say it's okay."

"So what will happen if he attempts to – say – strangle me with his bare hands?" I asked, trying but failing to keep the indignation out of my tone of voice.

"He'll get ill," said Fredrickson. "Immediately and seriously ill. And unable to finish strangling you, if that was a particular concern."

It wasn't; I figured Snape needed me as much as I needed him. I wasn't too worried about being attacked. Instead I thought about the measures Fredrickson had described to me. All those binding spells sounded a lot like Constringo spells, but those were highly controversial. Binding a person to a house, or to another person … The Ministry rarely granted the use of Constringo and whenever they did there were heated debates and discussions about the ethics of it all. I figured since Fredrickson deliberately didn't say what spells the Aurors were using I could probably count on it being a couple of Constringos. Perhaps they hoped the usage would pass by unnoticed. Still I felt a little apprehensive about being a part of it; I, like most people in the wizarding world, was opposed to the idea of binding someone magically to any place or person. The potential for abuse of power was too great.

"Well," I said. "Alright. When will he be moved there?"

"Tomorrow morning," replied Fredrickson. "You're free to go there whenever you want; would you like to be there when he arrives at the cottage? Start your interview right away?"

"Won't he want to get settled in first?" I asked.

"He doesn't really have much of a say," said Fredrickson. "It's not a holiday, Bess, he's there to answer your questions. That's it."

Yeah. That was it. Except for the tiniest, little secret detail about how _I_ was also going to be answering _his_ questions. I'd deliberately put that in the very back of my mind, figured I would deal with it later. Now later was fast approaching and I was feeling more than a little bit apprehensive. But I couldn't back out, not even for the sake of my privacy. I needed this job, I needed the money.

And I needed to hear Snape's truth. It'd been all I'd been thinking about the last week and I'd spent every waking moment preparing for our first talk. I wanted to know _everything_. If he had indeed been a double agent throughout the entire second war then that was unprecedented. The thought of writing the book that revealed that truth made me positively giddy. _Big break, here I come_.

"Alright, John," I said. "I'll be there when he arrives in Yorkshire tomorrow."

Fredrickson nodded. "I'll have Susan write down the details for you."

* * *

That following morning I found myself Disapparating from my flat to the village of Saffron-on-the-Hill. It was a ridiculously adorable place and I was surprised it was almost deserted. The papers Fredrickson's assistant had given me suggested something happened there during the war that made it this ghostly, but I hadn't bothered figuring out what. It wasn't the village I was interested in; it was the man who was going to be staying there.

The cottage was small, but not too small. It had two floors, a nice garden (ironic, since Snape wasn't allowed outside) and a greenhouse covered with vines. I had Apparated onto the nearest street – I naturally couldn't Apparate within the grounds, the Auror Office had seen to that – and now I found myself stepping up to the cottage, opening the gate to the small picked fence and giving a friendly nod to the two Aurors who were already stationed outside. I didn't know them, but they clearly knew who I was, as they didn't even blink when I passed them by and entered the cottage, closing the door carefully behind me for a moment of privacy before Snape's arrival.

It was cosy. That's the best way to describe Snape's temporary prison. It had a small sitting room with a fireplace and robust, old-fashioned wooden furniture. To the right was a small kitchen and beyond the kitchen a flight of stairs that led to the first floor where I figured the bedroom and bathroom was located. I looked around, wondering where would be the best place for us to have our talks and decided upon the large, dark brown kitchen table. I made my way over and was pulling out my parchments, quills and notes when I heard the door to the cottage open again.

There he was. Escorted by another two Aurors different from the ones who were guarding the cottage came Severus Snape, still in his prison uniform, back straight and face unreadable as he stepped inside. He took in his surroundings – including me – and didn't say a word. The Aurors, however, were all business, practically shoving him into the living room before looking expectantly at me. I quickly dropped what I was holding and hurried over.

"Miss White," said one of the Aurors, shaking my hand briskly. "We were told you might be here. You've spoken with _him_ before," he nodded in Snape's direction, using the word "him" as if he was barely even a person, "so we won't bother with introductions. However we need to make sure you understand the workings of the spells we are using to ensure your – and the surrounding area's – safety."

"John Fredrickson explained it to me," I said.

"Perhaps he did," said the Auror, "but you need to understand the specifics. At least concerning the spell cast to protect you. For the duration of his stay Snape will not be able to do anything to you unless you give him permission. Not even speak to you." He went quiet and looked pointedly at me, waiting. Finally he said, "Which means you'll actually have to give him permission to talk if you're ever going to _interview_ him."

"Oh!" I felt like an idiot. I turned to Snape and said, "You can speak to me. Whenever you like," I added for good measure.

"How generous," he drawled.

The other Auror – the one who'd been quiet – nudged Snape roughly in the back.

"It's simple, but you have to be a little alert when it comes to this spell," continued the first Auror. "If you do not give him permission it might cause serious harm." He didn't look as if that bothered him at all. "Remember you also have the possibility of revoking said permission whenever you feel like it. If he's rude you can actually shut him up," he added with a poorly concealed grin.

Snape gave a snort, earning him another nudge.

"When it comes to the rest of the spells they won't really concern you," said the Auror. "It's the same basic principle: If he tries to leave he'll get ill. Possibly die." He glared at Snape. "Get it? If you wanna live, you stay here." He turned his attention back to me. "If however, he by some miraculous occurrence manages to bypass the spells we still have Aurors stationed outside at all times. If he gets outside unharmed, he won't get far."

I nodded. "Loud and clear. He's still a prisoner. I can control him. He might get hurt and you'd love that. Are you through?"

In the corner of my eye I caught Snape darting a look at me.

"This is no laughing matter, Miss White," said the Auror. "He's a convicted felon."

"You think I don't know that?" I said. "That's kind of why I'm here in the first place. But he still has rights. I won't use the Constringo any more than I have to."

If he was surprised that I had figured out which spell was used, he didn't show it. Instead he nodded briskly, shook my hand again and shot Snape another, final look before turning to leave. The other Auror followed suit and soon after the door slammed shut. I was alone with Snape. For the second time, but now there were no prison bars separating us. I actually took a step to my right, putting the sofa between us. It was supposed to be subtle, but I was sure he noticed. He even raised an eyebrow.

"Alright," I said, drawing a deep breath and not allowing myself to panic – _yes, Bess, you're alone with a mass murderer, but he can't harm you, remember?_ – I instead gestured to the kitchen. "I've been preparing for our first talk. Perhaps you'd like to settle in first? Or … I don't know, take a shower?"

The second I said it I felt stupid. I didn't mean to suggest he needed one; I didn't think he did, but I had no idea how often they were allowed to shower in Azkaban and I figured a nice, normal shower might be a good way to begin his stay here.

"Actually," said Snape, "a shower sounds … appealing. If you don't mind waiting."

"Not at all," I said, returning to the kitchen. I sat down in one of the chairs and began flipping through my files again. "It'll give me some extra time to get ready. We'll begin today, but if you're tired we won't be talking for too long. I'll be back here tomorrow, we can start properly then."

"We can start properly today," said Snape, glancing up the stairs, probably scoping out the bathroom. "I have also been preparing."

I swallowed and he smirked. Then he headed off up the stairs and I made myself relax. He'd been preparing. For what, his own questions? What would he be asking me? It was bound to be personal, otherwise there was no point; he'd made it clear enough he wanted this deal to get a hold of my "darkest, dirtiest secrets", to use his own phrasing. I could only hope he wouldn't jump straight into the nastiest stuff. Start simple, like my favourite colour or something.

Yeah, right. I was delusional. Shaking my head I instead focused on my work, charmed my quill to take dictation and began looking over my questions. Soon I heard the sound of the shower upstairs and for ten minutes I sat waiting, listening. Finally the water was switched off and I heard him moving about up there. I hesitated, then decided to make some coffee to have ready for when he was done. Show of good faith.

It took another ten minutes before he came back down the stairs, his hair damp, still wearing the striped prison uniform. He didn't look as pleased as I would've hoped.

"No good?" I asked as he sat down, immediately reaching for the cup of coffee I'd poured for him.

"Shower? Yes, good," he nodded, eyes closed as he took a sip. "Stepping back into this uniform? Not quite as pleasant."

"Oh," I said. "Did you think …?" Had he hoped they'd provide him with different clothes? Normal, civilian clothes?

"No." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Never mind. Shall we begin?"

"Yes," I nodded, putting my own coffee cup down and making sure my quill and parchment was ready. I put on as professional a face as I could muster and began my very first interview with Severus Snape. "Okay, so. You're Severus Snape, born January 9th 1960. That makes you forty-three years old. Right?"

He grinned, but didn't answer.

"What?" I said, indignant.

"Nothing," he smirked. "Apparently this will work out quite nicely for me. If those are the sort of questions you'll be asking then it appears I will be staying here indefinitely."

I huffed and refused to let his insult get to me. "Well?" I simply said.

"Very well. Yes," he nodded.

"And you were a Death Eater during Voldemort's first reign. A loyal Death Eater," I added. "But you claim you turned spy for Dumbledore before his fall and remained a spy throughout the second reign. You've stated all of this in your hearings."

I wasn't asking, so he didn't reply. He merely inclined his head. I flipped through my papers and found the dates of the court hearings I'd decided to focus on during our first talk. Whatever he replied to my questions regarding this would tell me whether or not he could in fact be telling the truth. After all, four years ago the Wizengamot and the Aurors had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure he was guilty. They hadn't convicted him for nothing; they _had_ in fact proved he was lying. Or at least that's how it appeared.

"During the hearing on May 1st 1999 the Wizengamot decided your claim would be tested," I continued. "With Veritaserum. You agreed and took the serum the following day, May 2nd. Then you proceeded to tell a very different story – you said you _were_ a Voldemort follower. A true Death Eater. Under the influence of Veritaserum." I looked at him sceptically. "That's my next question, Snape: If you were Dumbledore's spy, as you say you were, why wasn't that the 'truth' you told when you'd taken the serum?"

He actually smiled. I couldn't understand why at first; it took me a moment to realize he probably thought I'd actually asked a relevant question.

"I don't know," he replied. "I know Veritaserum, I'm positive I recognized the taste. Yet when I drank it I found myself compelled to lie. I stood there and spoke the truth – or so they believed – when in fact I had been tricked. After that nobody would believe me, least of all about the false Veritaserum."

"You …" I distantly heard my quill scribbling eagerly, but I couldn't take my eyes off Snape. "You're saying they framed you. Had you drink something that made you lie. I hope you realize how serious an accusation that is."

"I do, yes," he said, then added, "Do you, Miss White?"

I nodded, not in answer to his question but as an acknowledgement of his claim.

"Alright," I said, "for now let's say I believe you. Who do you think was behind framing you? And why?"

"Over the years I made quite a few enemies," replied Snape. "Many of them could not – _would not_ – believe that I was innocent. I know there were several people who would have gone to great lengths to ensure my conviction. Though as I don't know who brewed the serum nor who brought it to my cell I couldn't say for certain who was behind it. As for why, well – like I said, I had a lot of enemies. Remember I _was_ a Death Eater during the first reign. And let's face it, I'm not exactly pleasant."

He was right, but there was the ghost of a grin on his lips and I suspected he was teasing me. I couldn't imagine why; he obviously didn't like me. Perhaps it was just the sheer pleasure of being outside of Azkaban that actually made him tolerable to speak with. Or the coffee. He was still drinking it; still taking quiet moments with his eyes closed.

I busied myself with pouring another cup while I pondered my next question. His story was weak, putting it mildly. Which again made me wonder: If he was such a gifted liar, why serve such bad lies? Unless they were true?

_No, Bess_, I said to myself,_ guilty until proven innocent in this case_.

"Okay, so that incident was what turned you into 'the liar'," I said, flipping through my papers again. "But I was looking at the court transcripts and I couldn't find anything about Pensieve usage. Didn't they look at your memories?"

At that he actually gave a sad smile. "I'm not sure you know exactly how a Pensieve works, Miss White …"

I glared at him, offended by his assumption, but he ignored me.

"Though removing one's memories and storing them for Pensieve use is easy enough, one inevitably runs into trouble when one attempts to remove said memories twice. _I_ remember all of the events from my past, but most of the memories from my work as a double agent had already at that point been copied from my mind. It could not be done again, there was no – how shall I put this? – no _extra copy_ for them to take out. Memories that have already been copied and removed once can't be taken again. An impractical flaw, but there you have it."

"I've read about that," I said. "You can't remove memories a second time without risking brain injury, it's a real strain on the mind; sometimes you won't even be able to find the memories even if you know what you're looking for … Oh, I see."

He nodded and I actually saw him looking slightly impressed that I knew this. I didn't suppress my proud smirk and instead ventured on, saying, "But to whom did you give those memories before the hearing? I'm sorry, but that sounds rather reckless."

Snape sighed and took another long sip of his coffee before replying.

"Harry Potter," he said. "I gave them to Harry Potter. He accepted them, and to the best of my knowledge he watched them and learned the truth of my role as a spy. He could easily have verified my story in court. But, as you know …"

I gave a small gasp. Harry Potter's heart attack.

"He died," I said. "He died before your trial, so he never testified. But you're saying he would have, you're saying he could have supported your claim?"

Snape nodded. "Yes. And supplied the memories as well, hopefully. But I do not know whether he kept them. And if he did I don't know where they are today. But that phial of memories, Miss White, could prove my innocence. It contains everything the Wizengamot would need and it would render my Veritaserum confession worthless."

"That's why you made it part of our deal that I would have to try and prove your claim," I said. "You actually think there might be some proof out there. You believe Potter might've saved that phial of memories."

He shrugged, replying even thought I hadn't asked an actual question. "Perhaps. Hopefully. But obviously I was never given a chance to go search for it. You can."

I nodded, taking it all in. If _this_ was true then Snape's story made more sense. It would certainly explain why the Wizengamot had convicted him. Perhaps it was actually possible that two horrible events beyond Snape's control – the fake Veritaserum and Potter's heart attack – had resulted in his imprisonment. No wonder he was bitter. No wonder he was _pissed_.

If it was true, I reminded myself. _If it was true_.

I downed the rest of my coffee, drew a deep breath and gathered my things. It hadn't been a long talk but it had given me a lot to think about. A lot I needed to work my way through if I could continue this line of questioning with the conviction that all I'd heard in the last hour was actually most likely true.

"I think that's enough for today," I said. "I'll have to spend tomorrow morning fact checking some of this stuff, but I'll be back here before noon."

"Very well." He steepled his fingers and looked expectantly at me. "Now. I believe it is time for me to ask my questions. Six, if I have counted correctly."

"Six … you _counted_?" I gaped.

"Of course."

I inwardly cringed but refused to let him see my discomfort. "Fine. Go ahead, Snape. Ask. Whatever you like."

"Thank you. I will." He leaned back in his chair and appeared to be thinking.

"Come on," I said, fidgeting, "you said you'd been preparing. You have your questions ready, just get it over with."

He chuckled, inclined his head indulgingly and leaned forward again, resting his elbow on the table, entwining his fingers in front of me.

"Very well, Miss White," he said. "First of all. When were you born?"

"January 11th," I replied. "1974."

He nodded. "Which would make you … Twenty-nine. Good. What are your parents' names?"

"Lillian and John White," I replied.

"And your mother's maiden name?"

Damn it. It was almost as if he knew. I briefly wondered if he hadn't in fact been checking my background before coming here. But if he had he wouldn't have asked about my date of birth. So this had to be just a nasty coincidence.

"Lillian … Rosier," I replied.

He eyes visibly widened. "Really," he said. "Rosier. Quite interesting."

I sighed exasperatedly and leaned back in my chair, wanting for the first time that day to get as far away from him as possible. At that moment I didn't give a crap about the book, I just wanted to leave. "That's three, Snape," I said. "Three to go."

"I can count," he said. "Now, Rosier … I had a different line of questioning all planned out, but now I shall have to take a detour. Lillian Rosier. Considering your age it is more likely he was your uncle – yes, he cannot have been your grandfather. Uncle it is." He glanced at me as if waiting for me to confirm it. I didn't give him the satisfaction.

"Ah, very well," sighed Snape. "I want to be certain. Was Evan Rosier your uncle?"

"Yes," I replied through clenched teeth.

"Hmmm." Snape leaned back again, arms folded across his chest, looking pensive. "I knew your uncle. Quite well, in fact. He was three years older than me, we attended Hogwarts together. Nasty piece of work," he added.

"I wouldn't know," I said. "I only met him once. He died in 1980."

"Yes," nodded Snape. "He very nearly took Alastor Moody with him. I remember it. That was back in the days when the Wizengamot still believed me." He sighed. "When Albus was there to collaborate my story."

His mind appeared to drift off and we sat in silence for a while. Inadvertently his interview had given me some information about him too and we were once again back to the question of his credibility. I remember thinking that if all of this was lies then Severus Snape was a gifted liar indeed. I couldn't understand how he would be able to keep track of it all.

"Well," said Snape, snapping me back to reality. "Now at least I will not have to ask in detail about your mother's family, as I know quite a lot about them. She must have been a few years older than Evan. I do not recall a Lillian Rosier from my school years." He raised an eyebrow at me and I glared at him.

"Ask," I simply said.

He glared back. "How much older than Evan is your mother?"

"Six years," I replied.

"Ah," he nodded to himself. "She had already finished Hogwarts by the time I got there. Makes sense. Very well, let's focus on your father's family then. There were no Whites in Hogwarts while I was there which leads me to believe he wasn't in fact a wizard. Am I correct?"

"Yes," I said. "Muggle."

"Interesting. Your mother was pureblood, her brother _and_ her father were Death Eaters and yet she decided marry a Muggle. I can't imagine that sat well with the Rosiers. Let me see … Evan Rosier died in 1980, and I recall his father's death as well. What about your grandmother, is she still alive?"

I shook my head stubbornly at him. "That's question number seven. Save it for tomorrow, Snape."

"Come on," he snapped, "are you really going to be this petulant?"

"I'm no more petulant than you," I replied. "Tomorrow."

He bit back what I bet was a series of curses and instead straightened up, locking his gaze onto me. "Very well, Miss White. Tomorrow. I will most certainly prepare new, decidedly more _intimate_ questions for our next session."

"Fine," I snapped, getting to my feet. "You'll get your pointless answers about my boring life and in return I get your truth. Tomorrow we get at it for real, Snape, so I suggest you get a good night's sleep."

"Likewise, Miss White." His voice was like ice.

I quickly gathered my things and was out the door in mere seconds. I basically ran down the street and didn't stop until I had turned the corner and no longer felt like small cottage was looking at me from behind. I didn't know what had gotten into me just then. Something about what he'd said – "decidedly more _intimate_ questions" – had totally freaked me out. He'd already put me on edge by diving deep into my sordid family history; I couldn't stand the thought of him … diving into anything else.

I forced it all from my mind. Commanded myself to focus on what _he'd_ shared that day. Then I nodded to myself, gathered all my willpower and ignored my own personal risk in all of this. _It's worth it_, I told myself.

I decided to head straight for the Wizengamot Libraries first thing in the morning. There I would double-check everything Snape had told me, yes, but more importantly I was going to find out exactly who brewed the Veritaserum four years ago and who brought it to him.

If _he_ was telling the truth it meant that somebody at the _Ministry_ had been lying.

* * *

**Getting somewhere, plot wise.**

**At this point it gets a bit complicated so if any of you spot any plot holes, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll fix 'em. More coming very soon.**

**Also I have to say parts of this particular "arrangement" with Snape in the cottage is inspired by one of my all-time favourite SS/HG stories, _This Present Darkness_, written on Ashwinder by kizzy7. It was never completed (sadly), but it's still an amazing story.**


	4. The Conversation

**Some minor swearing in this chapter, be warned.**

* * *

MAY 1st 2003

It was missing. The entire Wizengamot records for May 2nd, 1999 was missing.

I went back to the shelves, scanned the entire 1999 and the 2000 row and I still couldn't find it. There wasn't even an empty space between May 1st and May 3rd; it was almost as if the date didn't even exist. Which made absolutely no sense, because not only did that mean the notes on whoever brought Snape his Veritaserum was missing, it meant the _entire_ Wizengamot proceedings – every trial they had, every decision they made – for that day was completely gone. I scanned the entire bookshelf, searching from 1997 all the way to 2001 and examined every folder carefully.

No, definitely no May 2nd, 1999. I made my way past the shelves to the aging Wizengamot librarian who sat with her nose in a thick romance novel.

"Excuse me," I said, "there seems to be some mistake. I can't seem to find the Wizengamot records for May 2nd, 1999."

The woman looked up at me, narrowing her eyes as if the very idea of a folder missing was ludicrous. "I'm sure if you look again …" she began.

"I've looked," I said. "So thoroughly I think I practically know this place better than you by now. And I'm telling you it's not there."

She huffed. When I just kept looking expectantly at her she finally sighed, loudly, and got to her feet. She shuffled through the library and made her way to the shelf I'd already scanned thoroughly. She leaned in so close her nose was practically touching the spines of the folders as she made her way down the 1999 row. By the time she reached the end of it she looked puzzled.

"Hm," she said and did another scan. Yet again she reached the end empty-handed. "That's very curious."

"That's what I thought," I said. "I was led to believe these records aren't for lending."

"They're not," she confirmed. "Young lady, remember these are the public records of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We do not permit anyone to simply waltz in here and take what he or she wants. None of these folders are ever removed from the library."

"Well then, where's May 2nd, 1999?" I pressed.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I shall have to ask the head of the department. Perhaps the Auror office has borrowed it for an investigation, though I can't see what would be the point of that. Who would want to investigate anything about those trials now, it's been years."

"I would," I muttered. "But yes, please, ask the head of the department. I'm very anxious to see that folder."

"Why?" she demanded.

"I – that's private," I said, surprised at her candidness.

She huffed again and made her way back to her desk. I made sure she wrote down that she would get in touch with her supervisor. Apparently she felt I was hovering because finally she said: "Look, it might take me a day or two to locate this folder of yours. Perhaps you would like to receive an owl with the results? Or do you intend to wait _here_?"

"An owl will be fine," I said and gave her my contact details.

I was out of the Wizengamot Library and leaving level two of the Ministry a couple of minutes later. I'd spent the morning there, checking the details of Snape's trial – at least, those I got my hands on. Everything Snape had told me checked out. Even the details regarding his memories and how the Wizengamot was unable to retrieve the vital ones. Apparently they believed his many encounters with the Cruciatus Curse had simply addled his brain, and that could very possibly be the case. There were plenty of reasons why Snape's memories would be inaccessible, but strangely I found myself inclined to believe Snape's version – and if it were true then I had to find Harry Potter's widow. And beg her to let me rummage through her dead war hero husband's stuff. Yeah, right.

I'd examined the records from May 1st, 1999. As I'd already known from my research that was the day the administration of the Veritaserum was ordered, but Snape didn't actually take it until May 2nd. And the record of that day was conveniently missing. Convenient for whoever had brought Snape the serum – or whoever had brewed it; I was convinced it had been tampered with, otherwise why bother to hide the record? It couldn't be a coincidence – May 2nd was the _only one_ missing. May 3rd had been right there on the shelf, filled with references to Snape's confession to being a true Death Eater while under the Veritaserum influence.

Whatever conspiracy had occurred the clues about it was in that May 2nd folder. Which was obviously why it was missing. I wondered how long it'd been gone. I suspected that old hag of a librarian wouldn't notice if someone wandered out of that place carrying all of 2000, so it could've been anyone and it could've happened years ago. Perhaps the folder even disappeared that very year, 1999. If so it was surely destroyed by now. Proof of the potentially tampered Veritaserum was long gone and I'd have a better shot of finding that phial of memories.

If Harry Potter had in fact kept it. If it too was destroyed I didn't see how I could prove Snape's innocence.

_Hang on_, my mind said to me as Flooed my way from the Ministry to the Leaky Cauldron, _do you _know_ Snape is innocent now? Since when?_

I snorted at my own ambivalence and hurried down Diagon Alley. The last time I'd seen him Snape had really freaked me out, he'd practically made me run from that cottage with the promise of more _intimate_ questions during out next meeting. He was definitely not a nice man and logically speaking I only cared about the question of his innocence because I wanted to write a brilliant book and become famous for it. And it wouldn't be a brilliant book if he in fact were the murderous villain everybody made him out to be.

But … was that all, though? Was that the only reason I cared so much? I'd just caught myself thinking he definitely _was_ innocent despite the fact that my research hadn't proved a thing. Yes, the folder was missing and that was suspicious, but more than likely it would have a perfectly logical explanation. Within a couple of days I would probably get a notification from that librarian saying the folder was back in its proper place and that I could go read it at my leisure. And when I did it would probably contain nothing out of the ordinary – more likely the Master who had brewed the serum was a saint and the man who had delivered it doubly so.

It would only prove that Snape, the masterful liar, had managed to do it again. To me, despite the fact that I'd promised myself I wouldn't get fooled.

_Get it together_, I told myself as I made my way into Flourish & Blotts. I pointedly passed the displays containing at least a dozen Tom Riddle biographies and hurried towards the counter. The assistant manager, Richard Trent, recognized me and smiled.

"Bess," he said. "Here to pick up your copies?"

I sighed. "Yes, Richard. Please, not so loud. I'm not exactly proud of this. And I just need one today, I'll come back for the rest later."

"Whatever you say," he grinned and made his way into the back. He reemerged a second later carrying a new, shiny copy of _Grindelwald Roots_. Like all the other copies back there it had never been read, probably not even been opened. Which was why it, along with the two cases Flourish & Blotts kept in the back, was being returned to me. I hadn't made a single Knut in the last three months and this book was nothing but a waste of space.

Still I accepted the copy with a smile and stored it in my bag.

"Another one on the way, then?" asked Richard as I turned to make my way to the exit.

"What?" I said absentmindedly.

"You're leaving already," he said. "Usually you hang around for a while and check out the latest titles. Or scowl for at least fifteen minutes at Skeeter's _Riddle Unriddled_. Nothing short of another project would have you running off like this."

I gave an irritable chuckle. "A project, yes," I sighed. "Though I'm beginning to regret it."

He leaned across the counter, eyeing me with eager. "What's it about?" he asked. "The speed at which paint dried in the 18th century? Or, knowing my favourite Dark Arts historian, how _evilly_ it dried?"

"Ha, ha," I grunted, but I couldn't suppress a grin. Richard wasn't _my_ friend, per say, but he was a friend of a friend and hence allowed to mock my profession. And being the assistant manager at Flourish & Blotts he knew books and he _knew_ mine were boring as hell. At least they had been so far. I was going to change that.

"Oh, alright, keep it a secret, then," sighed Richard and turned his attention to the ledger. "I guess I'll find out soon enough. Is it any good?"

I sighed. "I hope it will be."

* * *

I Apparated directly to the little street in Saffron-on-the-Hill and I'm proud to say I didn't hesitate as I opened the small gate and stepped up to the cottage, smiling at the two Aurors stationed outside. I noticed these weren't the same ones as those who had been here the day before.

As I reached the door I considered knocking, but decided against it – he was here at my mercy after all, he would bloody well have to accept that I came and went as I pleased. Besides, he knew I was coming. So I drew a deep breath and opened the door, stepping into the cottage and closing the door behind me.

"Snape?" I called out.

"In here," a velvety voice said.

I turned toward the sound of his voice and spotted him in the kitchen, which was sort of what I'd expected. Though I'd expected to see him sitting at the table reading a book and cradling a cup of coffee. What I instead saw was him leaning over a bubbling cauldron. I stepped into the kitchen, baffled. Since yesterday Snape had transformed the entire room into a potions lab. The table was filled with tools, herbs and small phials and I detected a nastily sweet scent from whatever he was currently working on. He kept stirring his potion and merely inclined his head to welcome me.

I stepped up to the table and took a seat, gently placing my files on the only vacant spot I could find, next to a pile of bubotubers. They squirmed as I placed my dictation quill beside them. I made a disgusted sound and Snape raised an eyebrow.

"I did not take you for the squeamish type," he commented. "What with your current association with Death Eaters."

"Association is a strong word for it," I replied and managed to tear my look away from the nasty bubotubers. "And it's just the one Death Eater, currently." I raised my eyebrow at him and he smirked. "Actually," I continued, "I never was all that fond of potions. A lot of the ingredients give me the creeps."

At that Snape stopped his stirring and turned his full attention to me.

"I was thinking about that last night," he said. "I never had you in my potions class, yet I worked at Hogwarts while you were still young. By my calculations you started school in 1985 at which point I was already Head of Slytherin House. I remember, because that was the very same year Slytherin finally won the Quidditch Cup after a long Gryffindor winning streak. Though it hardly seems relevant now …"

I stared blankly at him.

"Ah," he said. "You didn't go to Hogwarts."

I smiled. "No. I did not. I went to Beauxbatons, actually."

"In France?" He seemed to ponder that as he returned to his potion. "Curious."

"Not at all," I said, but when he glanced up at me I didn't volunteer any more details on the matter. If he wanted to know why I went to Beauxbatons he would have to take it out of his questions quota. And we would get to that – though I was hesitant, considering the threat he'd made the day before – but surrounding my papers on the table, too cluttered too ignore, was a whole other issue.

"Where did you get all these ingredients?" I asked. "And the cauldron?"

"I set about exploring the cottage last night," he replied. "The cellar is full of old potions equipment. Apparently whoever lived here enjoyed the craft and it seems the Auror Office didn't feel the need to dispose of it before my arrival. Naturally I found no ingredients that would allow me to brew anything harmful," he added as he noticed my look of disbelief. "Just supplies for ordinary household potions. Such as this," he indicated whatever was bubbling in the cauldron, "basic healing potion. For boils and scalding."

I leaned an inch closer to look into the cauldron, but the smell was so nauseating I immediately retreated.

"Right," I said, ignoring Snape's smirk, he obviously found it funny how uncomfortable I was around potions, "well, can we get on with it? Or is my interviewing you – the only reason you're here right now – getting in the way of your cooking?"

"Cooking," he snorted, but with a final glance he stepped back from the cauldron. "Sitting room then, perhaps? The kitchen is a little … inaccessible, for a few days more at least."

"Sitting room," I agreed and got up. I couldn't wait to get away from the bubotubers, so I grabbed my stuff and hurried over to the sofa. I could hear Snape washing his hands before following me. He took a seat in the armchair by the fire, crossing his legs and gazing expectantly at me.

"Well?" he said. "What have you found out?"

I debated telling him that he'd have to use one of his questions for that, but then I realized I had to tell him about my findings at the Wizengamot Library, otherwise continuing my interview would become quite a challenge. And so I told him about the missing folder.

"I'm expecting to hear from them within a day or so," I finished. "It's probably just been misplaced. Or someone from the Auror Office has it."

"Hmm," said Snape. "You believe so?"

I shrugged. "Where else would it be." I refused to give him the satisfaction of telling him I was suspicious about the whereabouts of the folder. By the look of it he was suspicious enough for the both of us.

"After our last encounter I hesitantly decided you are not a fool, Miss White," said Snape. "Are you attempting to disprove it?"

"Not at all," I said, "I'm just not jumping to conclusions. For now I'm assuming you actually drank real Veritaserum that day. Based on the evidence accessible that seems the most probable, if you don't mind my saying."

He shrugged. "Very well."

I then explained that I'd confirmed what he'd told me about the Wizengamot's failed attempting at retrieving his memories for Pensieve use. Naturally it didn't surprise him – that, at least, was the truth. Though I had yet to know if Snape was truthful about _why_ those memories had been inaccessible.

"So in conclusion," I said, "I've found I've got two options: Either locate the phial of memories that you gave to Harry Potter or locate the folder from the Wizengamot Library."

"Agreed," nodded Snape.

"I hope the folder turns up," I continued, "but in case it doesn't I've decided I will probably have to seek out Ginny Potter. It's been four years, but I'd still rather not bother the widow of our world's saviour without just cause, so today we'll be talking about _why_ you became a spy. If you indeed did, as you claim."

He actually groaned at that. Not, I suspect, at my suggestion that he hadn't actually been a spy; the groan came before. It came when I said I wanted to know _why_. Clearly I'd touched a nerve there. But in all the years Snape supposedly was spying for Dumbledore he had never told anyone, perhaps save the old Headmaster, what his motives were. Why he did what he did. If he truly were a spy, if he had in fact left Voldemort at some point, changed his mind and turned double agent at great personal risk, then there would have to be a reason. And it belonged in my book.

Snape was glaring at me and looked as though he regretted this entire deal. But I wasn't about to be thrown. I opened my files, pulled out a piece of parchment and set my dictation quill to work.

"So," I said. "You claim you turned spy in the fall of 1980." I double-checked my notes and added, "Yes, august 1980. That's … just after Harry Potter's birth. Bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Is that a question? Have we officially begun?" he all but snarled.

I shrugged. "Yes. It's a question."

"Very well." Snape leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It is not a coincidence."

"Did you know … How could you know?" I pondered. "Nobody could have known at that point that Harry Potter was The Chosen One. Yes, there was the prophecy, but as far as I know only Dumbledore heard that. And it could have applied to another boy as well, Neville Longbottom, it says here that …" I was leaning down to read my research again but Snape briskly cut me off.

"I did not know," he said, voice like ice. "I did not think … No, I _did not think_. I merely acted out of selfishness. Out of loyalty, to a certain point, yes, but I think mostly out of selfishness. Ambition, recognition. I brought …" He sighed and buried his head in his hands for a moment. When he looked back up again his face was as cold as his voice. "I brought the prophecy to Voldemort."

"W-what?" I spluttered.

"You heard me," said Snape, glaring into the fire. "I overheard the prophecy. The first half of it at least. I brought it to Voldemort and he realized whom it was about. Or rather, he chose whom it was about – he chose Potter, not Longbottom. They both fitted," he added bitterly, leaning back into the chair, his gaze still distant as he sat with his face turned toward the fire.

All of this was news to me. I was astounded it had never made the Daily Prophet. _Snape_ had been the one to set it all in motion, or at least … he'd played a key role. Bringing that prophecy to Voldemort had set off a chain reaction of events that actually led to the First Fall. It had led to Harry Potter becoming The Chosen One, it had made wizarding history. And in the midst of all of that had been a young Severus Snape, barely out of Hogwarts. Eager to play the loyal servant.

"That's … a very big thing for a young man to have set into motion," I finally managed to say.

"Indeed," was Snape's reply.

"Still I don't understand," I pressed on, "did you feel bad because you sent your master to kill an innocent child? Because forgive me, but if you had those kind of morals you should not have been a Death Eater in the first place …"

"It wasn't about the boy," snapped Snape, glaring at me. "It was never about the _boy_, it was about his …" The second the word was about to leave his lips he went dead silent. The sort of silent one only goes in very particular circumstances. And so I knew.

"His mother," I whispered. "Harry Potter's … mother?"

It wasn't really a proper question, but Snape nodded anyway.

"I have lived with this secret for so long," he muttered, gazing yet again into the fire. "Only Dumbledore knew. I contemplated refusing to tell you this, but if you find the phial of memories you will no doubt learn the truth anyway. Yes," he sighed. "I loved Harry Potter's mother. And I was responsible for her death."

"You weren't," I immediately said, "Voldemort was …"

"I handed him her death sentence!" he snarled at me. Then just as suddenly his wall was back up and he turned away again. That hearth seemed to be his temporary safety blanket. "I just did not see it."

"So you … you went to Dumbledore," I said. "Became his spy in an attempt to save Harry Potter's mother?"

"Correct," said Snape. "And though every thinkable precaution was taken she was still murdered. By a cruel twist of fate her son survived, as living proof of the love I'd lost. And of how I had made him an orphan."

"You … cared for Harry Potter," I said, baffled.

"Hardly," snarled Snape. "In fact I could never stand him. He was the spitting image of his father, you see," he added with a nasty glare in my direction, "and you can imagine how _that_ thrilled me. But for Lily …" As he mentioned her name he went just as dead silent as he had a few minutes ago. He didn't look sad, didn't look devastated or heartbroken, he just looked … empty. Hollow. I realized it was all about redemption, but by the look of it Snape still didn't think himself redeemed.

The man who sat before me then, body tense with elbows back on his knees, gaze yet again locked on that fireplace, was not Death Eater Snape. It was the twenty-year-old man who had just realized the woman he loved was dead. I thought to myself there was no way he was faking this. He _couldn't_ be this good of a liar.

_Careful, Bess_, I said to myself, _he could_.

After all, there was no one around to verify this story. He'd said it himself; the only person who ever knew was Dumbledore. And Potter, through that phial of memories. A phial, I now realized, that I would have to get my hands on.

We sat in silence for a long time after his last words, "but for Lily". I didn't know what to say, I had no idea how to continue this interview with him now having buried himself so deeply into this state of mind. It was as if he wasn't even in the room with me anymore, he just stared at the crackling fire, not moving a muscle, barely blinking. Finally I couldn't bear the quiet anymore. I had to somehow move us along, though I was hesitant to speak of Lily Potter to him, hesitant to indicate whether or not I even believed him. I felt any comment would sound insulting, so I settled for,

"I'm going to make us some coffee."

I got through it without sounding like I was making him coffee out of pity and hurried into the kitchen, stealing glances at him ever so often while I prepared the coffee maker. He'd darted a look at me as I left the sofa but still he didn't speak. I checked the clock on the wall. It was almost noon.

"We should have lunch," I found myself saying. "Take a break and eat something. I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten since half eight. I hope the Auror Office has properly stocked this place for some cooking."

At that, Snape said, "I'll do it" and got to his feet. I caught myself just looking at him, coffee filter frozen in my hand as he made his way into the kitchen and started snatching things out of the fridge. The sight of him suddenly preparing us lunch in that prison uniform after the talk we'd just had was enough to make me completely at a loss of what to do. Finally he had to snap me out of it.

"I thought you were making coffee," he muttered as he began cracking eggs over the frying pan.

"I am," I said and hurried over to the pot.

* * *

Half an hour later I was in the sitting room having lunch with Severus Snape. It was an absurd experience. The eggs he'd made were marvellous and the French toast even more so.

"I thought you were joking," I said as I poured myself another glass of pumpkin juice.

"When?" asked Snape, glancing at me over the rim of his coffee cup.

"In Azkaban," I replied, "when you said you were a good cook."

"Hmm," he agreed, putting down his cup and helping himself to more eggs. "I'm half-blood. My mother was often … incapacitated, for various reasons, and my father was not particularly homey, so more times than not I found myself preparing the meals in our house. Actually I received quite a bit of help from the girl who lived next door."

I didn't dare ask who the girl was, I figured I could guess and didn't want to bring her up again, not when he'd finally started returning to normal. Instead I nodded appreciatively, hoping he read it as me thanking him for a splendid lunch. We finished eating in silence and I contemplated what had transpired in the last two hours. I didn't know at which point we'd stopped asking questions and turned it all into a conversation, but somehow a level of formality had disappeared and in its place I found something oddly comforting, something which even occasionally made me forget who he was, what he'd done. It was a dangerous game. I couldn't let the man's brilliant cooking skills and his broken heart cloud my judgment.

_Death Eater_, I said to myself, _Death Eater. Murderer. Liar_. Perhaps he was manipulating me systematically, perhaps all of this was part of some greater scheme. I had to watch it. I thought of the book, of paying rent, of my career. That did it; it snapped me back into reality and reminded me I was there to do a job.

I put my plate back onto the sitting room table and turned toward Snape.

"I think that's enough for me today," I said. "At some point I need to speak with you in detail about your Death Eater activities – that's actually the real reason I'm here," I added, fighting furiously to avoid guilt from colouring my features, "as you may recall I'm going to speak to the other Death Eaters in Azkaban as well, provided they'll see me. But before we can move along I have to fact check as much of your story as I can. I'll arrange a meeting with Ginny Potter and see if I can't figure out what happened to that phial of memories. Hopefully I'll get my hands on that Wizengamot folder as well. Once I know whether or not you're telling the truth …"

"I told you I would," he interrupted irritably.

"… then we'll take it from there," I finished unabashed. "Until then …"

"Yes, well," he interrupted again, leaning forward in his chair, locking his pitch-black eyes onto me. "Until then I believe I have yet to ask my questions for the day."

Inwardly I groaned. Stupidly I'd actually hoped he'd forgotten.

"Fine," I said. "Let's get this over with. What's the count today, how many questions have you earned?"

He frowned. "To be honest I don't know. I lost count at three, I will admit the conversation turned into something I hadn't quite … prepared myself for."

That was an understatement.

"Given the subject I felt it proper to abandon the strict questionnaire for the moment," I said, actually giving him a friendly smile. The look in his eyes at the bare mention of our earlier conversation had me actually feeling sorry for him.

"I appreciate that," he said through clenched teeth, not looking at me. "So I shall return the favour. No specific set of questions for you today, Miss White – despite what I had prepared …"

I inwardly shuddered at the way he said that.

"… instead," he continued, "I should like to have a conversation with you about one specific topic of my choice, much like the one you had with me."

"Very well," I said, trying very hard to hide the relief that threatened to seep into my tone of voice. "One specific topic. That sounds fair. Which topic?"

Now he actually grinned. "I should like to discuss why you did not attend Hogwarts."

_Damn. Shit. Bastard_. Had he actually sensed earlier how badly I wanted to avoid that subject? It had just slipped out, I hadn't intended to even mention it, but he'd asked if I attended Hogwarts and it wasn't as if I could lie; he had been there, he knew I had never gone to Hogwarts. Obviously he was curious as to why; I was British, there was no reason I would study abroad. Somehow he'd leapt straight to the root of all my shame, to the source of all the little things I had dreaded he would discover when I first agreed to this deal.

Damn him. Damn Severus Snape and the way his twisted mind worked.

"Miss White?" He was looking at me expectantly.

"Yes – fine," I muttered, fidgeting on the sofa. "Go on, ask."

"I thought we were having a _conversation_."

"We are," I snapped, "just … just get me going, will you?"

"Very well." He smiled, not unkindly. "Why did you attend Beauxbatons Academy as opposed to Hogwarts? Your family lived in England, as far as I know?"

"We did," I nodded. "And yes, I could've just as easily have gone to Hogwarts. The problem was … my uncle."

"Rosier," supplied Snape.

"Yes," I sighed. "You were right, I began school in the fall of 1985, five years after Voldemort's First Fall. I received my Hogwarts letter, I even went and I took part in the sorting."

Snape held up his hand to silence me. He seemed to think for a moment before he said, "Ravenclaw?"

I smiled; that particular memory from my school days was one I was actually a little proud of. "Spot on."

Snape awarded himself a self-satisfied look. "Go on."

"Well," I said, "I was actually there for about a week. I must have attended Potions, actually, though I can't remember it now. Perhaps they took me out of classes before I had a chance to."

"Took you out of classes?" echoed Snape.

"Yes." I sighed. No avoiding this, I had to tell him now. "Dumbledore took me out, suggested to my parents I go to a different wizarding school. With good reason. There had been an … incident."

He raised an eyebrow. "Incident?"

"Yes." _Just tell him, Bess, it'll get worse the longer you hesitate_. "I got in a fight. A nasty fight with a Hufflepuff girl. She accused my uncle of having murdered her grandfather. I said he hadn't. We fought, I cursed her. With a really nasty Conjunctivitis Curse. She … She nearly went blind. From what I was told she didn't gain her eyesight back until her fourth year."

Snape stared at me incredulously. "How were you able to do that at the age of eleven?"

I gave a small smile. "My uncle taught it to me. Ironic, isn't it? The only time I ever met him."

"Evan Rosier taught a six-year-old to cast the Conjunctivitis Curse?" Snape shook his head. "I cannot believe you even managed to learn it at such an age."

"My uncle was a good teacher," I said, "though that's not why I was able to cast it. When he died someone else was there to finish his teachings while I was waiting for my Hogwarts letter. We practiced all summer."

"Who?" asked Snape.

"My cousin Ana."

He hesitated before asking, "Your cousin. Rosier had a daughter?"

I nodded. "Not many people know about her. She was an aspiring Death Eater. I don't know where she is now; she went into hiding after the war. No one in my family wants anything to do with her anyway, but … Well, we did spend the summers with her when I was young. She was a few years older than me and had learned quite a lot from her father. Needless to say she didn't attend Hogwarts either," I added. "By that time my family wasn't particularly popular with the student body. I of course found out that the Hufflepuff girl had been telling the truth, my uncle _had_ murdered her grandfather. It took me a while to realize what sort of a man I was actually related to. At the age of eleven I didn't understand."

"Your parents should have prepared you," said Snape matter-of-factly. "A lot of relatives of Death Eaters were met with hatred and abuse when they attended Hogwarts after the First Fall. I expect Dumbledore suggested you attend Beauxbatons to avoid any further … incidents."

"Yes," I agreed, "that's what he said. He took pity on me, though – despite the fact that I'd done something so horrible to another girl he seemed to realize why I was so angry, where it'd come from, how … difficult it was for me. I was just a child, yet the actions of my uncle and my grandfather somehow defined _me_. An eleven-year-old girl."

Snape nodded. "I suspect it was for the best, even if you did not see it that way at the time."

"I didn't," I said, "but I do now. Though I've often wondered what would have happened if I had attended Hogwarts instead. A lot of things would have been different; at Beauxbatons I …" I stopped. I didn't want to volunteer that information and hopefully he would have the sense not to ask. I shook my head slightly, chasing away the ghosts of my past. "Well. It doesn't matter now. That Hufflepuff girl was Muggleborn; I read she was killed during Voldemort's second reign. At least I found out it had nothing to do with her weakened eyesight," I added bitterly.

Snape leaned forward and locked eyes with me, his gaze intense. "You are not responsible for that girl's death."

I smiled. "I could say the same to you."

His face immediately went blank and he stood. He towered over me then, I suddenly felt self-conscious and quickly got to my feet as well, even though that didn't do much to help with the height difference.

"Thank you for sharing," he said, though the flicker of warmth he had displayed while I told my story was completely gone. He looked impatient, he clearly wanted me to leave. I decided not to push my luck. I had told an awful truth from my past today and he hadn't ridiculed me or threatened to use it against me. I figured I would leave before his sudden bad mood would tempt him to do otherwise.

"Likewise," I said. I gathered my things and took a step away; his presence was a bit too much just then. "I might not be here tomorrow. I'm going to try and get in touch with Ginny Potter and I'll be hunting down that folder from the Wizengamot Library. If I'm not here tomorrow I'll probably come by the day after. I expect I'll have more questions for you then."

"Likewise, Miss White," he said. His tone of voice was suddenly very … ominous. Like it had been yesterday.

I left in a hurry.

* * *

The Aurors stationed outside the cottage smiled at me but I barely glanced at them. Instead I hurried down the street and found myself experiencing the same distress I'd felt when I left the day before. During the last two minutes of my stay Snape had somehow turned into this towering, intimidating persona that was nothing like the Snape I'd had lunch with. The question was, which was the real Snape? Was what I'd just witnessed just a front or was the kinder version just an act?

I stopped as I turned the street corner. The clouds had lifted had the sun was coming out, warming my body and bringing with it those wonderful promises of spring and then summer, yet at that moment I didn't feel any of it. My mind was completely preoccupied with Snape.

None of my friends knew what I'd done to that Hufflepuff girl at Hogwarts, none knew the real reason I'd gone to Beauxbatons. Only my parents knew, Dumbledore had never told the rest of the faculty and the girl herself was dead now. It was a secret I had vowed to keep for as long as I lived; yet when I'd begun telling it to Snape that fear of exposing the truth somehow just … went away. I couldn't figure why he'd had that effect on me. Had he been subtly manipulating me or was he actually somebody I could talk to about these things without feeling shame? It was logical, after all he had done so many horrible things, way worse than me; I would never expect him to judge me. Perhaps that was why it had felt so unnaturally safe to share.

Dangerous. Definitely dangerous. A convicted Death Eater for a confidant? Not a good idea at all. I mentally berated myself and decided that the next time I went back to that cottage I would not share a single detail more than I absolutely had to.

And I would _not_ let him lull me into that false sense of security again.

_It's an act_, I kept repeating to myself, _it's all just an act_.

* * *

**A/N: Again, just a small author's note to let you know that if you spot any plot holes, or anything that's _way_ off from canon, please let me know. Hard to keep track sometimes. **

**Thanks to all who read and review - I anxiously watch the stats. So much fun to discover new readers.**


	5. The Widow

MAY 2nd 2003

When I'd gotten home the day before I had discovered the copy of _Grindelwald Roots_ from Flourish & Blotts was still in my bag. I'd meant to give it to Snape, as a kind of peace offering, a way for him to get to know my work, if he felt inclined. I didn't know if he would even want to read it, but I had felt I should give him the option. After everything that happened during our talk, however, I'd completely forgotten to give it to him.

Today it still lay heavily in my bag, reminding me of Snape. I forced it from my mind and made my way through the gates, feeling the watchful eyes of the winged boars on me as I headed up towards Hogwarts. I hadn't been here for eighteen years, not since the day I had been sent to Beauxbatons. To pretty much every witch and wizard in Britain this had been their home for seven years but to me … it was just a castle. A castle I somehow felt resentment towards, as if it were _Hogwart's_ fault that I hadn't been able to go there.

I reached the entrance, climbed the stairs and with a little hesitation I made my way inside. Somehow the castle intimidated me. Perhaps that wasn't unreasonable; my strongest memory of Hogwarts was the fight I'd had with the Hufflepuff girl. I could still hear myself shout the curse, could still vividly picture the incident that had sent me packing to France.

My trepidation, however, was somewhat subdued when I saw Minerva McGonagall waiting for me outside the doors to the Great Hall with a splendid smile on her face.

"Miss White," she said, approaching me. I smiled back and shook her hand.

"Headmistress McGonagall," I said by way of greeting. I'd met her before, but I had been only eleven. Since then I had most recently seen her in the many articles about her in the Daily Prophet. She didn't look a day older than she had when I'd first stepped through these doors to get sorted, almost twenty years ago.

"I told Mrs Potter you wanted to speak with her," said McGonagall as she led me up the stairs to the first floor. "She's happy to meet with you once she's finished with the fifth years. Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?"

"Actually," I replied, "if you don't mind I think I should like to see the castle."

"Of course," nodded McGonagall, "would you like a guide? It can be a bit tricky if you don't know your way around."

"Thanks, but I'll manage," I replied. "I look forward to getting lost in these halls. Maybe it'll help me get a better picture of what my friends are reminiscing about all the time." I said it with a smile so as to not sound bitter, but in truth I probably was.

"That's understandable," nodded McGonagall. "I expect Ginny will be finished in a hour or so. I have arranged for you two to have a private meeting in my office, as I understand the nature of your talk is a little … private. So at some point you should make way to the Headmistress's office. It is located on the seventh floor. Look for the gargoyle and speak the password, it will bring you straight up to Ginny."

I nodded. "What's the password?"

McGonagall smiled. "Equality."

I thanked her. We shook hands and she hurried down a corridor, presumably to teach to a class. I turned towards the staircase in front of me and made my way up to the second floor, eager to begin my exploration.

It was perfect for me to meet with Ginny Potter here; it gave me a chance to experience Hogwarts. When I had called via Floo to the Burrow that morning her mother had told me she was at Hogwarts for career day, speaking to the O.W.L. students about their futures. Ginny Potter was most likely the fifth years' hero; she was after all Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies – the dream of oh so many witches and wizards. When her mother suggested I meet with her at the castle I had leapt at the opportunity. I had contacted Headmistress McGonagall by Floo and she had been more than happy to accommodate me. We had quickly bonded over our mutual resentment of Tom Riddle biographies. And so I found myself here, back at Hogwarts, that very afternoon.

I spent more than half an hour just wandering the halls and the moving staircases, studying the statues, the paintings, the hustle and bustle of students running from one class to another. I saw them practice spells, saw them fool around and joke and fight, and there was a horrible, nauseating feeling at the pit of my stomach. With disdain I acknowledged that what I felt was jealousy. I wondered whether I would have behaved differently if I had attended Hogwarts instead of Beauxbatons. Had that school made me what I was during those years or would it have been just the same here? Looking around, I couldn't see any students displaying the sort of behaviour we did, but then again they probably wouldn't have displayed it in front of me anyway.

I smiled at a group of frantic first years as they raced past, then found another staircase and made my way, flight by flight, up to the seventh floor. Suddenly I felt the need to seek refuge. I hurried along, found the seventh floor corridor with the gargoyle and said, "Equality" to it. It leapt aside and I stepped onto a moving staircase that brought me up to a large oak door. I knocked, but no one answered. Tentatively I pushed it open and stepped inside.

Ginny Potter wasn't here yet. I was early. Suddenly I felt I should go back down to the corridor and wait for her, but my overwhelming curiosity about this room made my feet move of their own violation. I stepped fully into the Headmistress's office and took it all in.

It truly was a beautiful office. The furniture was polished, decorated; there were curious artefacts on shelves and in cupboards and a warm fire crackled in the hearth next to the large desk. Behind it I spotted the Sorting Hat. It winked at me.

What really piqued my interest, though, were the dozens of paintings that hung all across the walls. In each and every one there sat a witch or wizard; some were dozing off, others idly tending to some mundane hobby or other. It dawned on me that these were previous Headmasters and Headmistresses of the school. I didn't see Snape anywhere, but I figured he hadn't been granted a portrait because he had been Headmaster during Voldemort's reign. I scanned all the paintings, looking for one in particular and there it was – right behind the desk, next to the Sorting Hat. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore.

He sat in his chair, legs crossed, observing me with mild interest. It was as if he already knew what I was doing there. To be honest he kind of creeped me out; he looked at me as though he knew my every little secret.

"Minerva told me we would play host to a meeting today," he said, looking at me over the half-moon spectacles that were perched on the tip of his nose. "Between Ginny Potter and a … ah, a Dark Arts historian, I believe?"

"Yes, hello," I said, regaining my composure. I took a step forward. "I'm Bess White. I have a … personal matter to discuss with Mrs Potter."

From the corner of my eye I could see several of the inhabitants of the other paintings looking at me with interest.

"Minerva was a little vague on the details," said Dumbledore.

"I didn't give her the details," I confessed. It felt surreal to be speaking with the portrait of _the_ Albus Dumbledore. "What I'm doing is … Well, let's just say not everybody would want to cooperate with me if they knew what I was doing. The man I'm doing this for isn't particularly popular."

The second I spoke those words I realized: Dumbledore _knew_. This man – well, he was dead, so it was merely the portrait of him, but still – knew all about Snape; if Snape truly had been spying for Dumbledore then wouldn't the copy in his portrait know? Wouldn't _he_ be able to tell the Wizengamot the truth?

I opened my mouth to explain everything to Dumbledore just as the door creaked open and I was forced to turn around.

"Hello," said a female voice. "I don't think we've met."

Ginny Potter. No, I hadn't ever met her, but I'd seen her, like all the others who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, plenty of times in the papers. Especially, perhaps, after Harry Potter's death; for a long time they hadn't left her alone and in the end the entire Weasley family had been notoriously uncooperative with the press. I looked her over and decided she had certainly aged in the last four years. She was still young, hadn't even turned 22, yet she looked _old_. Hardened. I realized this was probably not going to be a walk in the park. Somehow I got the impression she already associated me with the press.

"Hello. Elizabeth White," I said and stepped forward to shake her hand. She introduced herself, though it was hardly necessary, and returned the shake firmly.

"I understood from McGonagall that you wanted to speak with me about Harry," said Ginny. She didn't display the slightest flicker of emotion as she spoke of her dead husband, though that was probably just a front.

"Yes, that's right," I nodded. "I appreciate you meeting with me. I understand you've not been particularly keen to discuss him with anyone outside of friends and family, I can understand that."

"Thank you," said Ginny. She put down her bag and sat in one of the armchairs. I followed her example. "To be honest I didn't want to meet you. But McGonagall assured me you're not a reporter. You're a historian, she said?"

"Yes," I said. "I am. A Dark Arts historian, to be precise."

I pulled out _Grindelwald Roots_ from my bag, glad I hadn't yet given it to Snape so I could show Ginny Potter I wasn't lying. She examined the book carefully before handing it back to me.

"McGonagall also said you are _not_ writing about Voldemort," she said. "Or about Harry."

"I'm not," I confirmed. "I'm writing about … Well, to be honest with you I'm writing about the Death Eaters. I'm interviewing them in Azkaban in the hope that I'll be able to shed some light on exactly who did what, where. Many who lost loved ones in the war still don't know exactly what happened to them, I'm hoping I can find the answers to that."

She eyed me sceptically. Clearly Ginny Potter bought into that premise about as much as I had when Fredrickson had first presented it to me. I liked her immediately and yet again felt ambivalent about the entire project. But I reminded myself that if everything went according to plan I would be writing about _Snape_, not the other Death Eaters. I'd be clearing a name, and that eased my conscience ever so slightly.

"However," I hurried on, desperate to get Ginny on my good side, "the very first Death Eater I began interviewing has presented me with a claim I can't ignore. I'm here today for him, to find out if his story is really true, and you can help me with that."

"It's Snape," she said.

"Well – wow. Yes," I said. "How did you know?"

"It had to be him," said Ginny. "He's the only one who claimed to be innocent during the trials. He stood by his story, saying he was Dumbledore's spy."

"You don't believe he was?" I asked.

"Honestly I don't know what to believe."

I found myself glancing at Dumbledore's portrait. He caught my eye but didn't speak.

"Yes, Dumbledore says so," said Ginny; she'd noticed my less than subtle look. "Or at least his portrait does. But portraits are tricky things. They aren't fully realized versions of their living selves, they're just … imprints. They can be tampered with, and sometimes they remember things wrong. It all depends on the state of mind the person was in when they died. Dumbledore _says_ Snape was his spy, but Dumbledore died in June 1997. His portrait's memories are from that time and Snape continued his Death Eater activities for almost a year after that. I know it doesn't sound likely, but …" She sighed. "Most people believe Dumbledore was fooled. That Snape actually managed to trick him, that it was all an act. The portrait doesn't believe it, but that doesn't matter. Like I said, Snape was Voldemort's most loyal servant for a long time after Dumbledore's death, there is no definite proof that he ever actually was working for the light."

"There is," I insisted, "there _is_ proof somewhere of his innocence. At least, I hope there is," I added. "He says so. If it actually exists and if it wasn't destroyed, then … you have it."

She looked shocked, almost incredulous. "Me? What do I have that proves Snape was a spy?"

"Something of Harry's," I said. It almost felt wrong, disrespectful, to speak his name to his widow. "According to Snape he gave Harry a phial of memories that explained everything. The same memories the Wizengamot were unable to retrieve from Snape."

"I read those were addled by the Cruciatus Curse," said Ginny.

"That's the official story, yes," I said, "but according to Snape the memories were actually removed and given to Harry at some point before his trial, I don't know exactly when – or why. Ginny," I leaned forward, "Snape says Harry Potter knew he was innocent. And that he would have testified to that if he'd been alive at the time of the trial."

Ginny frowned. "Harry never said anything about that to me. To be honest, in the months following the final battle he barely spoke at all. We were close, we married, but … he was struggling with inner demons, that's for certain. He never wanted to talk about things, he just ran. He went running all the time; I think it was like therapy for him."

"So he never mentioned Snape?" I asked.

"Not in so many words, no," replied Ginny. "Though … he did say he would be there at his trial. At the time I didn't understand why; he steered clear of anything to do with the clean up after the war, but he insisted he'd be there for Snape's trial."

I nodded, contemplating this. It was obvious Harry Potter had suffered a great deal after the war; I could only imagine how severe a case of post-traumatic stress syndrome one would get after experiencing what he had experienced. Still he'd been determined to go to Snape's trial. Had he intended to testify in Snape's favour? Show the memories, perhaps, or offer up his own as proof? Whatever his plan had been he'd died before he was able to see it through. I caught myself thinking that if only he'd gone straight to the Wizengamot with what he knew – and not waited for Snape's trial – none of this would've happened.

Again, given that Harry Potter _did_ know Snape was a spy. Given that Snape was truthful, given that those memories even existed. There were still too many "givens" in all of this for my taste.

"I'm really sorry for your loss," I said, it felt like the correct time to express my sympathies. "Harry died before Snape's trial, so whatever he wanted to be there for we'll never know. But I'm betting Snape would say it was to clear his name. Look, Ginny," I regretted having used her first name but she didn't seem to mind, "if we assume Snape actually gave those memories to Harry, do you know where the phial might be? Have you seen anything in his possessions that could contain the memories?"

She shook her head. "Though to be honest I've never properly gone through all of his stuff. By now most of it is in boxes at Grimmauld Place, the house he inherited from his godfather. I considered taking it all with me to The Burrow but at the time I just couldn't, I …" She trailed off, glancing at me. I nodded in understanding.

"Do you think he would have kept it?" I asked. "If Harry did receive those memories, would he have kept them?"

Ginny frowned. "I suppose so. If they contained proof of Snape's allegiance. Despite Harry's hatred of Snape he was never unjust; if Snape was innocent Harry would have acknowledged the right thing to do would be to support him. If he _was_ a spy all that time, then … then Harry would've owed him a great deal."

I looked at her expectantly. I didn't dare ask but I figured she knew what I wanted. She gave me a sad smile and sighed.

"I don't know," she said. "Rummaging through all of his things again, I don't know if I could … I know it's been four years. But to me it's like he died yesterday. I still see him on that hospital bed, eyes wide open, looking at me as though he could actually see me when in fact he … he wasn't looking at me at all. He was already gone."

She didn't cry. I know I would've had it been me. Perhaps the war had hardened Ginny Potter to such an extent that weeping just seemed like a waste of time, or perhaps she'd always been this tough.

"I can't imagine what you've been through," I said. "And I wouldn't ask this if there were any other way. If that phial still exists and it contains the memories Snape claims it contains, then that's the key to his release."

"The key to his release …" muttered Ginny. "In my mind he was always a traitor. I never even considered anything else; the second he killed Dumbledore, that was it for me. I'm not even angry with him anymore, I haven't thought about him for years. Now you want to clear his name."

I inwardly cringed. I felt like the most insensitive person in the world. Who was I to ask this of Ginny Potter? How dared I ask to go through her dead husband's things to look for proof that would liberate the man who had tormented said husband for seven years? It was ridiculous. Yet Ginny didn't look angry. It seemed to me that she just wanted to understand why.

"If he in fact _was_ a spy …" Ginny paused, then looked straight at me with those bright, brown eyes. "Like I said, if he was then Harry would've owed him a great deal. It's possible that despite everything, despite how much Harry was struggling with his life after the war he actually intended to go to that trial to speak in Snape's defence. I acknowledge that that's possible." She hesitated, then added, "Do you believe him?"

I hesitated too. In all honesty I didn't know if he was telling the truth; I couldn't know. I didn't have the evidence.

Still, I believed him. At that very moment I _knew_ I did.

_You're going to regret this_, my sensible half warned.

_I know_, the reckless half replied.

"I do," I said to Ginny. "He would have no reason to lie about this, there's nothing in it for him unless it's true. I won't help him clear his name if I don't have proof, he knows that. And he can't have tampered with any potential evidence, given where he's been the last four years."

Ginny nodded. "Alright," she said. "You can go look for the phial. But I won't be there with you. I can't go into that house again, I can't … I don't want to go through his things. I'll talk to a friend, see if someone I trust won't be able to take you there within the next couple of days. They'll help you look."

"Thank you," I said. "I … really appreciate this, Ginny."

She shrugged. "If he really was a spy then he's been falsely imprisoned all this time. That's not right."

"It isn't," I agreed. "Though so far I regret to say he has the odds stacked against him. If he's telling the truth that means someone went to an awful lot of trouble to frame him. Which means I'll have to find out who that was."

"Take your pick," said Ginny, "he's got plenty of enemies."

That was true, he'd said so himself.

We both stood. I shook her hand gratefully and smiled.

"Again," I said, "thank you. You didn't have to do this, I had no right to ask it of you, so – so I really appreciate your help."

She smiled back. "I always wondered why Harry was intent on going to Snape's trial. Perhaps now I'll have my answer." She hoisted her bag up on her shoulder. "I've got to get back to practice. I'm sure McGonagall will be up here soon if you want to have a talk with her before you leave. I recommend it," she added with a wink.

"Thank you, maybe I will," I replied and watched as Ginny Potter turned and stepped out of the Headmistress's office, leaving me once again alone with the various portraits and their inhabitants, who had all been following our conversation with keen interest.

"About time somebody stood up for Snape," came the snide voice of a man who occupied a frame to my left. "Slytherins are always treated like criminals; we're not all bad you know!"

"Hush now, Phineas," said Dumbledore with a chuckle. "There really is no end to your complaining."

I ignored the mutterings of the black-haired, grumpy man – Phineas – and turned my attention to Dumbledore once more.

"Ginny said you think Snape was loyal to you," I said. "That he in fact was your spy. Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be, given my circumstances," said Dumbledore. "Mrs Potter is correct, I'm just a portrait. After I died Snape and I certainly had a lot of conversations in this very office, but I find my memory is a fickle thing these days. I no longer remember exactly what was said by whom. More to the point, all I know is what I was convinced of at the time of my death. I'm not real, you know, Miss White, I can't change my mind. I believe what I believed when I died."

I nodded. That was something, at least – until the very moment he died Dumbledore had believed Snape was his ally. Even when Snape himself killed him.

"I guess that's why the Wizengamot never questioned you during Snape's trial," I said. "You're not exactly a reliable witness."

"Indeed," replied Dumbledore. "What I believed when I died was enormously irrelevant, of course. And like Mrs Potter said, portraits can easily be tampered with. Though I don't believe I have been – I should think that would have tickled."

I smiled, understanding at last why all of my friends spoke so fondly of the man who'd been their Headmaster while they attended Hogwarts.

"Then you're not much help for me, I'm afraid," I sighed.

"Very true, I'm not," agreed Dumbledore. "Though, Miss White, for what it's worth – I truly appreciate what you are doing for Severus."

That was the first time I ever heard anyone use his given name.

* * *

After my tea with McGonagall I made a quick stop at my flat to see whether or not an the owl had come from the Wizengamot Libraries. It hadn't. In fact there was no mail whatsoever, not even from … from Bertram. Despite the fact that it'd been over a week since I'd sent an owl to him.

_He's not ignoring you_, I said to myself, _he's just … busy_.

I shook the never-answered question that was Bertram Bell from my mind and Apparated to Saffron-on-the-Hill just after lunch. I had contemplated not going there at all today – anything to avoid whatever Snape had planned for me – but I felt inclined to tell him about the news. He would be happy to learn I'd actually been granted access to Harry Potter's belongings. If the phial was there, I would find it.

I made my way down the small street, through the gate to the gardens and approached the cottage. The two Aurors stationed outside – the same as the ones who had been there yesterday – nodded at me as per usual. Still there was something about them, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. They were eyeing me with – what, concern? Trepidation? I couldn't say and swiftly made my way inside the cottage before I was tempted to ask.

Once again I was met with the sight of Snape in the kitchen, surrounded by his potions supplies. He wasn't working, though; he was sitting by the table with a cup of coffee in his right hand, quietly watching the bubbling from the cauldron. It all appeared perfectly normal and yet … there was an almost tangible tension in the room. I could immediately tell he was pissed.

"Miss White," he said, voice velvety-soft, yet there was such malice in his words, "I am so pleased you have graced me with your presence. In fact I'm surprised you didn't come sooner."

"Why …" I stepped closer to the kitchen but kept myself well out of Snape's reach. "Why should I have come sooner?"

He looked up from his cup, locking those black eyes directly onto me and not letting go. I couldn't look away.

"After all, when the host invites guest she should be present to welcome them," he spat.

"Guests?" I looked at him, completely baffled. "What guests?"

"Don't lie to me," he snapped. "I know it was you. Who else would benefit from …"

"Snape," I interrupted; the look he shot me almost made me stumble, but I ventured on, "I honestly don't know what you're talking about. Please, I …" Only then did I notice the long gash on his face, stretching from his left eyebrow down to the corner of his lip. The second I noticed that, all the rest of him seem to come into focus: He was covered in bruises. I saw several other, smaller gashes on his lower arms and, I noticed, he was clutching his side with his left hand.

"What happened to you?" I exclaimed.

He glared at me. "You mean to tell me you don't know."

"Of course I don't!" I said. "Tell me!"

He didn't answer and suddenly there was an expression of intense pain about his features. He actually groaned and, like a fool, it took me a second to realize why: _The Constringo_. It gave me the power to silence Snape, to keep him from harming me, yes, but a less known side effect of the spell was the pain he would experience if he disobeyed direct orders.

"Sorry," I immediately said, "sorry, you don't _have_ to tell me. But please … will you?" I looked at him, silently begging him to forego this childish behaviour and actually explain what had happened.

He sighed and made another grimace, clutching his side tighter. I wondered if he'd broken a rib.

"Very well," he finally said, "as it appears you do in fact … _not_ know."

"I don't," I assured him.

He put down his coffee cup, dragged his fingers through his long, black hair and looked at me once again.

"I … apologize. I believed it was you who sent the press here," he admitted.

"The press?" I echoed.

"The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler … The Wireless," he summarized. "They practically set up camp just outside the cottage earlier today. They shouted at me to come out," he added with a raised eyebrow. I immediately realized what he was implying.

"And you _did_?" I asked, incredulous. "Why? You knew it would hurt you, you knew the spells the Aurors have cast could have very possibly killed you!"

"They certainly made a valiant attempt," he said wryly, gesturing to his beaten face. "However I lost my temper and, not having a wand to curse them with, I found myself desperate to … _physically_ explain to these journalist what my thoughts were on them coming here."

"You wanted to punch them," I translated. "How very gentlemanly of you."

"It might have escaped your attention but I am no gentleman."

"So if you had a wand you would have cursed them."

He nodded decisively.

"Brilliant," I sighed. "As if this won't cause us any trouble, as if the warden won't use this for all it's worth to try and get you back to Azkaban … Why, Snape? I don't know how they knew, I didn't inform them that you were staying here, but – why not just ignore them? Why did you have to hurt yourself like this?"

"They … said some things I did not appreciate," he finally replied. "In the end, attacking them felt better than merely sitting here, listening to their bile. At least I was doing something," he added, "where were _you_?"

"Meeting Ginny Potter," I replied. "I'll get to go through Potter's possessions within a few days. I'll look for that phial."

"Some progress at least," sighed Snape, yet again grimacing as he shifted in his chair. "Though now that the newspapers know you are here I doubt whether or not you shall get to search in peace."

"They weren't outside when I arrived just now, the Aurors must have chased them off. Hopefully they don't know my involvement in all of this just yet."

"Hmm," was all I got from Snape.

"I'll find out who alerted the media," I added. I meant it, too – not only could their knowing jeopardize my entire project, it seriously pissed me off that they even had the nerve. Showing up here, baiting a mass murderer? Secretly I was disappointed Snape hadn't at least gotten a good swing in before the Aurors shoved him back into the cottage.

I glanced at him again and suddenly realized they hadn't bothered to clean him up. A couple of quick spells and he would've been good as new, but they'd left him here, bleeding, bruising … _Bastards_.

"Do you want me to fix that for you?" I pointed to his face, then, more importantly, to his side. It had to be a fracture; he looked to be in too much pain for it to be a mere bruised rib.

"No."

"Come on," I said, "don't be a baby."

"The healing potion is almost finished," said Snape, gesturing to the cauldron. "That will take care of most of my troubles."

"But the rib," I said, pulling out my wand. The Aurors would have had a fit if they saw me brandishing it this close to Snape, but I didn't care. I wanted to help him.

"No," repeated Snape. "You will not fix it. I do not know you well enough to know if your spell work is satisfactory, I will not risk it. If you want my fractured rib taken care of this badly you will lend me your wand and I will do it myself."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, immediately putting my wand away again.

"Well, then."

I sighed and nodded. Fine, he'd keep his broken rib. _See if I care_.

I glared at him, exasperated by his stubbornness but when I once again saw him wince I realized he was actually in a hell of a lot of pain. I couldn't imagine how much damage the spells had done to him, he was probably too proud to reveal the actual extent of his injuries.

"You need some rest," I said. "We'll continue our interview tomorrow. I have some things to take care of today anyway."

"What things?" His head immediately snapped up to look at me.

"Personal things," I said pointedly.

He waved a dismissive hand and looked away again.

"Anyway," I said, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, "here. I brought you something to read. While you heal," I added sheepishly. Then I pulled out _Grindelwald Roots_ from my bag and slid it across the table. Snape glanced at it, apparently uninterested at first, but once he spotted the title he grabbed it.

"Yours?" he said, though it wasn't a question. He saw my name on the cover.

"If you're interested in my work, give it a go," I suggested. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He inclined his head, not looking at me. He'd already flipped the book open and was reading the introduction. I managed to keep my smile in check and said a final, "Goodbye" before leaving him to recuperate. Once outside I stopped to have a chat with one of the two the Aurors.

"Yes," he said when I asked about Snape's fit, "he was seriously pissed. Came storming out here, fuming like a dragon. He actually went straight for the journalists – who were outside the fence of course – and we barely had time to restrain him. I reckon he actually would've died had he gone out there," he added, gesturing toward the street.

"Do you know who told the media he was here?" I asked.

"No idea," the Auror replied, "but we've alerted the Office. We'll find out. This was supposed to be top secret. Can't have all of wizarding Britain know a killer's out on holiday, can we?"

I shrugged. The damage had been done. I only hoped they didn't know about me yet.

"I can't believe it, though," I said to the Auror. "Snape knew he was risking his life, coming out here. What made him lose his temper?"

"Something they said," replied the Auror. "Something one of the photographers from the Daily Prophet shouted … nasty stuff. Insults. About a woman," he added, eyeing me.

"Oh," I said. "Oh, it was probably …" I winced. "They didn't by any chance say Lily Potter, did they?"

He looked at me, surprised. "Harry Potter's mum? No, far from it. Bess, the insults that pissed him off were about _you_."

* * *

**Curious to see what you think about this chapter.**

**More importantly I'd like to add a special thanks to Zaea, who reminded me of Dumbledore's portrait at Hogwarts. My solution to this is not something I've made up - Rowling herself said the portraits "aren't fully realized versions of their living selves, they're just imprints". I let Ginny be Rowling's mouthpiece in this particular scene.**


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